


She and He

by CreepingMuse



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Gen, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-01-06 16:13:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 49
Words: 109,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CreepingMuse/pseuds/CreepingMuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What's in a name?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. She and He

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this started off as a one-shot and got wildly out of hand. We begin post 1x06, and the first fourteen chapters are basically canon-based missing scenes with an Ichabbie slant. Then the season ended but I wasn't ready to, so then we go veering off into an original plot. It's a slow burn. Seriously. Slow. But it does get there.
> 
> Thanks for everyone who made this so much fun. And thank you for taking a chance on it, too.
> 
> \--Allison, 10/13/2014

Not for the first time, he attempted to imagine her as she would have looked had she been born into his world. It was easier to envision here, alone in the cabin. He did not always eschew the electric lighting system, but he preferred to think and read in the soft glow of candles. It made the world seem familiar and unreal, and allowed his mind to wander.

It was highly probable she would have been a slave, of course, filthy and uneducated. At best, she would have been a free woman, perhaps one who'd scratched out some semblance of a life, as Mr. Bernard had, but likely just as poor and just as desperate as those in chains. But he refused to imagine her like that. It was impossible to envision her in a state of servitude, the woman who stood as if she were taller than he, who could demand silence with a purse of her lips.

First, he tried to imagine her in the simple clothes of the Quakers he had grown to love. He strained to picture her hair drawn up under a bonnet, her body cloaked by long skirts. Somehow, though, it was impossible for him to see her with a distaff in her hand instead of a firearm or set of automobile keys. He shook the shadowy image away.

This time, his mind's eye attempted to enrobe her in the clothing he had known in England as a young man, but he laughed aloud before he could conjure a vision of her in such an impractical quantity of silk, with quite so many seed pearls.

No, she belonged in her "pants" (how scandalized he was when he heard her refer to the garment as such!) and her short coat, just he belonged in his breeches and great coat, no matter how she teased him for it. She was a woman of her time, as he was a man of his. As evidenced by the fact he knew not what to call her in his head. For now,the only name he could offer was were pronouns—"she" and "her."

Perhaps Katrina should have been the only she in his world, and his wife was certainly foremost in his heart. But with Katrina, nomenclature was simple: she was "miss" until she became his wife, at which point she was Katrina in private and Mrs. Crane in public. The rules were exceedingly clear on that front—though, had he used his father's title, things would have become murkier. But no, his wife was Katrina, and so he held her in his head and his heart. But with his friend, things were clear as mud, as she was so fond of saying.

At first, lieutenant seemed appropriate. She held a man's position, dressed in a man's clothes, and was involved with a paramilitary organization. Thus, she was defined by her profession instead of her familial relationships. And that had been good. Simple. Perfectly proper.

It was only when he began to see her as an entire person that the situation clouded. In time, he came to understand her as a person, one who loved baseball, no matter how deathly dull it was, and who took her coffee with an alarming quantity of sugar. He had seen some of her darkest moments, when she forced herself to be brave and to face her own shame. He had seen her do the right thing, even though it shook her to the very foundations of her soul. And in turn, she had seen him lost, frightened, afraid in so many ways. And she had stayed by his side, though she was just as terrified as he.

When you knew someone so deeply, and when they came to know you with the same intensity, it was impossible to maintain the pretense that their relationship was purely professional. She became his friend—though the word seemed wholly inadequate- and as such, she was entitled to more intimate forms of address.

That had all been satisfactory until he'd gone and complicated things. No one to blame but himself, really, and his inability to see another way. When he thought he was going to die, when he thought he must die in order to preserve this wonderful, horrible world he'd awoken in, he called her Abbie. Not Abigail, not even Miss Abbie. Abbie, as though they were wed.

Or, he hastened to remind himself, as if they were siblings. That would have been entirely proper as well. Some part of him protested that the use of her Christian name was an adaptation to the twenty-first century and its startling lack of formality. But he had never bothered trying to fit into that world before; why would he start on the brink of death?

And despite this world's lack of ceremony and titles, Abbie had seen the significance of the moment, and it had meant something to her. Just as, against all odds, he meant something to her.

He closed his eyes and tried to imagine once more. This time, he tried to see their roles reversed, to imagine that an oddly attired, bizarrely spoken woman had appeared in his village, raving nonsense about demons and traveling through time and all the rest of it. Would he have been so kind to her as she had been to him? Or would he have taken her to the nearest hospital for disturbed minds?

While he would hope he would have been as stalwart as she, he wasn't at all sure. The incident with Mr. Bernard—Cicero, alas! Another naming quandary—had taught Ichabod that while he tried to do the morally upstanding thing, it sometimes took him a bit to see exactly what that was.

Church bells boomed beside him and he started out of his seat as he always did. "I thought the ring tone would remind you of home," she had mocked gently as she handed him the plastic device not much larger than a snuff box. He had fought the communication method-"If you wish to speak to me, simply come and speak to me. The distance is trifling with your automobile"-but she had insisted that sometimes speed was of the essence. Then she'd made some crack about Paul Revere and he'd been too exhausted to explain that Revere had nearly bungled the entire mission. He just accepted the telephone—the linguist in him appreciated the name, at the least—and promptly ignored it whenever possible.

But now he took it in his hand, gazing at the glowing letters. "Call from...Abbie," it read. She'd put her identifying information into it, had named herself. He laid the phone on the table, waiting for the bells to fall silent.

It was easy to become distracted with these toys and this new life and with Lieutenant Miss Abigail "Abbie" Mills. It was easy to forget that somewhere, Katrina was suffering in a misty purgatory, unable to move on, unable to render aid except through visions and dreams when they were at the very precipice of death. It was easy to think of only his new life here, with her, and to forget Katrina's mischievous smile and kind eyes and bold, brave heart.

After all, had it not been for Katrina, he would be dead right now. Dead two hundred years ago, and dead now, a Mason martyr, another body for the lieutenant to bury beside her beloved sheriff, if his brothers had even allowed her to claim his corpse. But together, the two hers in his life had saved him, in ways that were the same and so very, very different.

Fate had not merely bound together two witnesses; they were a trinity of believers. Whether any of them liked it or not, they would not escape each other.

The telephone squawked, indicating a message of some sort. But Ichabod merely watched as wax dripped its way down the candle beside him, dissolving into a soft white pool.


	2. The F Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our intrepid adventurers go shopping; Ichabod continues to struggle with how to address Abbie.

Did he have to talk so damn much? Most of the time, he could use one normal word—words like "yes," or "no." Instead, she got shit like, "my ears shall remain eternally open to your admonition," or, "under no circumstances shall I emerge from this cell wearing this sackcloth!"

"They're called 'jeans,' Crane," she called over the dressing room wall.

He stuck his head out from the curtain. "Are you aware there is a hole in the...in the nether-regions of this garment? Just below the button! Is there meant to be some sort of codpiece-"

"It's a zipper," she interrupted, voice sharp. "Take the metal tab at the bottom and pull it up. And make sure you tuck your bits in." The last thing she needed was a trip to the emergency room with a lacerated penis.

"My bits," he muttered incredulously.

She took a few deep breaths, trying to get back into a good head space. Yeah, this was confusing and overwhelming for him. She got that and did her best to sympathize. But right now, she needed him to get some clothes that didn't smell like old cave no matter how many times she washed them. Then she needed to get him home and try to deal with some of her own shit. She was behind on her paperwork, behind on paying her bills, and she didn't even want to think about the dishes overflowing from her sink. They probably smelled like old cave now, too.

Spending time with Crane was fun; he saw the world so differently—not just because of the whole Rip van Winkle thing, but because he was the smartest guy she'd ever met. Plus, since he came around, she never knew when she might be attacked by demons instead of meth heads, which definitely added some spice to the workday.

But it was also exhausting, like babysitting some genius toddler. He could speak languages she'd never heard of, but literally could not tie his own shoes. He wanted explanations for everything, and sometimes, she just didn't know them, didn't care about them, or flat out didn't have time to discuss the history of the flush toilet.

Crane threw the curtain back with a theatrical flourish. Seeing him in jeans was definitely weird— she'd gotten used to the dirty pirate look—but she was most concerned about fit. They were long enough. Good, she'd been worried. Looked okay in the crotch. "Turn around," she ordered.

"How on earth do you tolerate wearing this apparel day in, day out? They chafe far worse than leather trousers," he groused, even as he followed her order.

"Not even gonna ask why you were wearing leather pants." He hadn't changed into any of the t-shirts she'd picked out for him, so she twitched the hem of his long shirt up so she could see the fit from behind. He lightly smacked her hand away, but not before she saw what she needed to see. Normally she would have admired the view, but she was just too tired. "Perfect. I'm gonna grab a couple pairs of these and the same size in some Chinos. You can't wear those outta here, so get back into your pantaloons."

"These are clearly trousers; pantaloons have a much wider-"

"Whatever." She headed to the table of Levi's. When she got back, she had to tear him away from questioning a really confused teenaged employee about how the pants were made. They eventually made it through checkout and back to her car. She reached for the police scanner; she'd rather listen to the persistent buzz and bark of the machine than deal with another one of Crane's word avalanches. But he'd at least figured out the "on" button, and stopped her hand before she could make it there.

"Miss-" he cut the word off, shook his head, then continued. "Have I offended or displeased you in some way? You seem unhappy."

"How come you don't say my name anymore?" she shot right back. Nope. The only thing worse than Crane talking was Crane making her talk. And he was damn good at getting her to admit things she hadn't even realized. "Ever since the whole poison thing, you keep stopping yourself from calling me anything. Not even 'leftenant.' It's getting weird."

He looked down, almost...embarrassed? Then he turned the scanner on. Familiar voices calling familiar codes filled the car, and she relaxed into her seat. She had about five minutes of peace before he switched the scanner off. "I'm having some difficulty with your present-day nomenclature," he said.

"English, Crane."

"I don't know what to call you."

"Called me Abbie the other day. That worked fine." She cheated a glance at him, but he stared straight ahead, and his long nose and downcast eyes didn't give her any clues.

"Yes, but I thought I was going to die. Those are fairly extenuating circumstances," he said. He sat up straighter, tugging at the seat belt she always had to remind him to wear. "One should not call a lady by her given name."

"Why not?" In the past few weeks, she'd found herself wishing she'd paid more attention during history class. History was a big damn deal in Sleepy Hollow, so she and Jenny and done their best to ignore it.

"In direct address, it's reserved for family," he said softly.

The fuckin' "f" word. In her family, usually things were better when they didn't directly address each other at all. So she could get how the closeness first names apparently implied could wig someone out, even though... "You know if it came down to having you or Jenny at my back, I'd pick you every time. Family's just luck of the draw." She left out all the parts about how she couldn't trust Jenny because she'd never trusted her sister in the first place. Damn, she was ready for those beers.

"That means a great deal to me," he said. He mercifully left off the "though you really should be nicer to your sister" part, for once.

They drove the rest of the way without saying much—she reminded him he needed to answer his cell phone when she called; he mentioned the beauty of the autumn leaves. But for the moment, nothing else needed to be said. As irritating as he was, she couldn't imagine not having him around anymore. She didn't have a clue how she would have survived losing Corbin without him. Talk about family-he'd been her father and her friend and her mentor. He'd been everything but a boyfriend. Losing him had been the worst thing that had ever happened to her, hands down. She couldn't help but wonder if Crane was her consolation prize, if somewhere up there Corbin wasn't kicked back in a chair, smiling knowingly down at them. "I got to the end of what I could do for you an' Jenny," the old sheriff would say. "Crane'll take it from here."

God, she missed him.

Abbie pulled up in front of the cabin just as the sun crumpled beneath the horizon. "You good? We good?"

A slow smile tugged first one, then the other side of his lips upward. "We are good." He gathered his bags from the backseat, holding them from the tips of his fingers like they were scorpions. "Well, good night, then."

He started to shut the door, but she leaned across the passenger seat. "Why don't you just call me 'Mills'? Drop the 'miss' thing, makes me feel like a kindergarten teacher. You don't mind when I call you Crane, right?"

"Mills." He tasted the word, as if for the first time. "Mills. I'm not sure. I shall have to give the matter further consideration."

She huffed out a single breath of laughter. "You do that."

Her apartment was silent, and the beer just didn't sound good anymore. She curled up on the couch with her reports and the soothing chatter of the police scanner.


	3. A Starving Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during 1x07, as our intrepid explorers search for the mysterious book. Turns out Ichabod gets a little cranky when he's hungry...

There were innumerable cruel ironies about the situation in which he found himself, but Ichabod had unquestionably identified the worst of them all. More than anything, he yearned to return home, yet he already was present in the town in which he had lived and where he and Katrina had created a happy household, had spoken of having children one day, had dreamed of a life together. He was longing not for a place, but for a time. Home was, quite literally, extinct.

Ichabod wanted to sleep on a proper feather tick instead of a noisy mattress filled with metal. He wanted to walk freely throughout the village on cow paths and muddy streets, wanted to nod at his neighbors and ask after their health, rather than gliding through town in an automobile, silent and anonymous.

He wanted to live in a world where he understood the rules. He wanted to be treated like a man—like a professor of history at the finest university in the world—rather than an idiot school child who should be rewarded for not drooling on his own shirt.

He did not, under any circumstances, wish to learn about this "Internet" or this "computing machine." Yet here he was.

"Think of it like the Pony Express," Mills said, her fingers clattering across an oddly arranged grouping of letters and numbers.

"A pony is, rather by definition, not express. Have you seen their short legs?" he wiggled his fingers in the air. "Not unlike you, in that respect."

"Cute. Okay." Her eyes never fell upon him, remaining trained upon the machine. "Let me figure out something you'll understand-"

"Simple etymology gives me an inkling," he interrupted. "The term is 'Internet,' yes? Inter, from the Latin for 'between.' Net, is this some sort of...trap? It traps information between two locations?"

She finally turned away from the machine, her face glowing a sickly green in its light. "You know, not a terrible description."

"You needn't be so surprised I know the most basic Latinate prefixes," he huffed.

"They did not cover Latin at Sleepy Hollow High School or the police academy," she said with a ghost of a smile. "Know a little Spanish, though."

"Which, of course, derives from Latin. You likely know more than you think. But what sort of institute—especially one known as a 'high' school—does not instruct in Latin?" To think that she had never read Virgil in the original made him profoundly sad.

"Well, they did teach me to use a computer." He wrinkled his nose. "Don't you make that face at me. All you need to know for right now is that we've got copies of the book." She turned the computer toward him, and he felt a rush of relief as he saw the familiar, beautiful handwriting, so unlike the regimented and perfect type so often utilized now. He wanted to fall upon the words and feast like a starving man.

For hours, they toiled, alternating between the computing contraption and the paper copies he'd so prudently acquired via the ingenious portable printing press. She took phone calls from her captain; he strained his eyes and his mind, attempting to derive some meaning from the code. But without the password, it was gibberish. He flung a stack of papers in the air in disgust, startling his partner who had been leafing through an old volume.

"O-kay." She snapped the book shut. "I think it's time for a dinner break."

"We haven't the time. The horseman rides again, and I will not have more blood on my hands." Perhaps the word was a name—Revere, for the old narcissist. Prescott? He reached for the fallen papers.

"You starving yourself isn't going to help. You need brain food. C'mon."

Crane had to admit there was a certain logic to her words, so he allowed himself to be led from their headquarters. That seemed to be all he did these days—allow himself to be led about by the nose.

He expected her to lead him to her vehicle, but she stopped short. "If you could eat anything in the world right now, what would it be?"

"Katrina's roast supper," he said without a moment's hesitation. He had dreamed of it; not just of the tender beef, thick gravy and crackling potatoes, but of the times he'd shared the meal with his wife. It was always a happy occasion when there was roast—celebrating their first night together as man and wife; the meal she prepared for him when he returned home on leave—and he wanted to be back there with her so badly, he could taste it.

"Roast. That like pot roast?" she asked, a smile curving up around her lips.

"I believe it is prepared in a pot of some sort, yes," he said, not allowing hope to well inside him.

She grinned. "I was worried you were gonna say something weird like squirrel, but we can do that. We can definitely do that."

They walked through the cold night air to a brightly lit tavern. This late in the evening, few were in attendance, but Mills was clearly a regular patron at the establishment. "Hey Millie. You guys got any pot roast left?"

Millie, a portly and weary-looking woman in an apron, looked up at Ichabod, a somewhat dumbstruck look on her face. "He's new."

"Yup. Name's Crane, he's a consultant. The pot roast?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Two, please. To go. And mashed potatoes. Something green'd be nice, too."

Millie returned in due course with two squeaky white boxes which smelled enticingly of beef and starch. The aroma was nearly painful, so similar and yet so different was it from that which he recalled. It took him several moments to realize Mills was repeating his name.

"What do you want to drink? Coffee?"

In an instant, his reverie was gone, and he turned sharp eyes toward Millie. "Do you charge for your water, or do you serve your fellow man by offering it as his God-given right?"

By now, Millie bore an expression he knew all too well: she thought him mad. He took perverse pleasure in that.

"Water's free, hon."

Crane beamed triumphantly at Mills. "Finally, a woman who understands hospitality. A mug of water, if you please." He cast another sidelong glance at his partner. She was smiling. "To go," he added.

Mills reached for the leather envelope she carried her money in, but he stopped her and produced the huge pile of currency—he still couldn't believe that prig Hamilton was portrayed on the ten dollar note—Captain Irving had given him for expenses.

"Look at you," she said as they stepped into the night, him slurping on his tariff-free water. "Handling money, using computers. Soon you won't need me anymore."

He merely snorted by way of response.

They ate together in their lair. What precisely the "pot roast" tasted of, Ichabod hadn't the slightest idea. To his palate, it simply was home. He ate every bite and restrained himself from licking the odd container clean. Then he stole bites from Mills' plate, to her mock outrage, as they leaned their heads together, poring over the blasted codes.

"It's not Katrina's, but was it good enough?" Abbie asked.

He licked a slick of gravy from the plastic fork with too many prongs. "Good enough, indeed."


	4. No Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set during 1x07, while our intrepid heroes gathered wood for their trap.

"Am I simply to take the word of this...Wiki-pedia? How do I know this source is even remotely reliable, considering how little that 'educator' knew about Revere?" Crane sniffed, squinting down at her phone.

"Not believing Wikipedia is probably a good call," Abbie said. She wasn't quite sure what this battle ax had been doing in their Bat Cave, but she wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth, either. She knocked down tree branch after tree branch with it. "But you can look somewhere else—even in a book. They'll all tell you the same thing about your buddy."

Crane continued to blab on about what a great guy old TJ had been, and she fell into a steady working rhythm. She'd realized that if she didn't listen to every word Crane said, it was easier to understand what he meant and keep up with the constant conversation. She just let it wash over her like background music, trying to chop in time.

"Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do when they come for you?" her cell phone belted. Luke. He'd set his own ring tone, because of course he had. Guess Crane thought it was about as funny as she did, because he dropped the phone into a pile of leaves with a squawk.

"This device not only can search every piece of information ever published and communicate over vast distances, it sings?" Crane yelled, more loudly than he needed to, over the music.

Abbie thunked the ax into the tree trunk and scooped her phone up. She dismissed the call; no time for Luke now. Possibly not ever. She shoved it into her pocket, taking the break to drink some water from a bottle, just because it'd bug him. "You don't have to do that around me, Crane."

"I do many things, though perhaps not as many as your smartphone can," he said with a sneer. "You'll have to be more specific."

"Act dumb, when we both know you're not." She offered him the water; he literally stuck his nose in the air.

"My sincerest and most abject apologies if my discomfiture is an irritant." He stalked over to where she'd left the ax and removed it from the trunk, one-handed and effortlessly.

"You've got every right to be uncomfortable—that's what discomfiture is, right?" He inclined his head. "But c'mon, you know what a straw is. And you know how cell phones work—I showed you, plus you have a perfect memory. Even if you didn't, you can read 'swipe to answer call.'" She gathered a pile of branches, all taller than she was, and drug them toward their trap. "I get that the whole 'Unfrozen Caveman Lawyer' thing gives you a leg up around Irving and all them, but you don't need to do it with me. 'less you want to. Free country."

"I wish to return to this unfrozen neolithic solicitor at a later date. But to what leg up do you refer?"

"I'll only tell you if you keep working. We're on a deadline here."

Crane seemed almost startled to find that he was no longer chopping, but was standing at parade rest, with his hands—and the ax—clasped behind his back. He always gave her his full and undivided attention, which took some getting used to. If he was talking to you, he was talking to you—no peeking at a phone or a watch or anything.

He snapped into action and decapitated a sapling with two sharp blows. "Continue."

"You like it when people underestimate you. It means you can get close to them, get under their guard, surprise them when you're not actually stupid. Plus, people leave you alone more that way. Gives you time to work out your own plan, which you know'll work. When people dismiss you, it gives you a lot of freedom."

Crane had stopped again, his lips parted. "This is why you volunteered to be the bait in our trap, isn't it? You thrive under a similar, though different advantage: You believe that because you are small, because you are female, that you will not be perceived as a threat by the Horseman."

"Mhmm. Used to it. I may be emancipated and all, but that doesn't mean it's easy being a cop when you're either short, black, or a woman. I just hit the jackpot." She smiled and shrugged, because she wouldn't have it any other way. Plus, perps were stupid and thought they could take advantage of her "weakness." Just meant they were easier to take down.

"It seems my brother Masons aren't the only ones who insist on cleaving to traditional gender roles, even in your most enlightened era."

"About that—how come you aren't telling me to get in the kitchen and make you a sandwich? The 1700s wasn't exactly a great time for women, I hear. And give me that ax if you're not going to use it." She thrust a hand toward him, casting a worried glance at the sun. Too fast. It was going down too fast. Irving better find those UV lights soon.

Crane grasped the ax near its head and extended the handle to her like it was a sword. She bowed, and he clucked his tongue.

"You have to bend at the knees, very slightly. If you come directly from the waist, it appears as though you have some sort of stomach ailment." He demonstrated another sweeping bow, as he had at the baseball field. She grinned at the memory.

"Looks better when you do it," she said. "But seriously, you don't hear about the founding mothers. Except Betsy Ross, and she's famous 'cause she sewed. Not exactly badass."

"To my utter lack of surprise, history has done my female revolutionary colleagues a grave disservice—further reason to distrust your assessment of Jefferson." He took his coat off, carefully folding it over a low limb. "Abigail Adams was twice the man her husband was, and a lady besides. She thoroughly earned my respect. As did my fellow comrade at arms, Robert Shurtliff. It took us a year to discover her true name was Deborah Sampson. She served with great distinction and bravery—not to mention her talent at subterfuge."

That teacher act he did so well drifted slowly away and was replaced with something hard, cold, and brittle. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "And then, Katrina. How could I ever think a woman's place was only at the hearth when I knew her heart and her spirit?"

Abbie hated when he talked about Katrina. Not because she had anything against the witch, even if her timing for visions was pretty crappy. Katrina seemed nice. But every time he thought of her, Abbie could see that it hurt. And when people she cared about got hurt, Abbie just wanted to fix it. It was one of the reasons she'd become a cop: That guy hit you? Let's get him in jail. Simple cause and effect, problems solved while you wait. But sometimes, it wasn't that simple. Sometimes, it was about tackling problems in order of priority: Right now Abbie wasn't even sure they'd be able to save the world, forget busting Katrina out of purgatory.

She couldn't fix this for him.

If Abbie were a good friend, she'd put a hand on his shoulder and tell him that they'd get Katrina back. That she promised. But she hated that kinda thing—every time a cop in the movies did it, it drove her nuts. There were no promises. Sometimes the good guys fuck up or are just outgunned and outsmarted. There might not be a way to get Katrina back; what if they freed her, she went back to 1781 and he stayed here? Or somehow it sent her back in time and Abbie lost him? Who knew how it all worked?

Bottom line: She couldn't fix Ichabod's problem. Not today. All she could do was change the subject.

"Y'know, there've been some amazing women since then, too. Sojourner Truth, Susan B. Anthony—she was from upstate, in Rochester—Rosa Parks. You could learn about them if you'd learn to use the Internet instead of acting so...prissy and English about it."

"I may be British by birth, but I am as American as apple tart, thank you very much," he said, hefting the ax onto his shoulder like a lumberjack.

"Now you just think you're funny, huh?"

"I do find myself quite droll, from time to time."

He said it in such a proud, peacocky way that she just busted out laughing. "Okay, funny guy. Let's just hope Headless underestimates us both."


	5. A Vast Ocean

He reached for the telephone, but at the last moment, his hand strayed to the bottle of bourbon just beside it. This, he decided, was safer by far than messaging her. Bourbon would keep his secrets, bear his shame, and would require no apologies. He refilled his glass. He'd started the evening by heavily watering the beverage, as was his custom, but he forwent the nicety this time. The rough Kentucky beverage—he again gave his silent thanks to Sheriff Corbin- burned its way down his throat unimpeded.

On many nights before, he had resisted the comforting oblivion of drink. But tonight? No. Tonight, he needed distance with himself. If he sat in silence and thought, he would have to consider that his love for Katrina had turned his dearest friend into a creature from a nightmare. That the last words he'd spoken to Abraham—words he'd regretted every instant since they escaped his mouth—had been begging for his blessing instead of begging his forgiveness and offering comfort.

Yes, Abraham's choices were his own. But Ichabod had helped him far, far up that garden path.

Even a goodly quantity of the bourbon could not bring enough distance. His hand approached the telephone again.

Ichabod understood that he only wanted to speak to Mills because she was the nearest approximation he had for speaking to Katrina. Certainly, he'd murmured a few reassuring words at his wife's gravestone and sworn to protect her from all harm, but in the end, he had only been speaking to air. He wanted herto tell him that everything would be all right, that they would triumph.

Suddenly, he wasn't at all sure which her he meant.

No, no. Katrina, most assuredly. But that was impossible for now. And his compulsion to speak with Mills was furthered by his need to absolve himself of yet more guilt. He had been in the wrong today, insisting on staying with the Horseman (with Abraham, a sinister voice in the back of his mind whispered) and nearly dying for his trouble. He had been in the wrong when he said he was in control—the very fact that he had shouted the words was proof that no, he was far, far from control, and had been ever since he'd awoken.

Mills deserved his apology. Yes, that was why he would extend a message to her. For no other reason at all.

He admired the way the reddish gold bourbon gleamed in the firelight before downing the remaining contents of the glass. He refilled it, steeled himself, and seized the telephone. After a few moments of trial and error, the screen informed him that it was in the process of calling "Abbie."

He waited.

A click, and then a familiar voice, though foggy and scratchy, as if the words had been pushed through an ear horn before reaching him. "Crane?" she asked, with more than a hint of concern. "You okay?"

Despite the impossibility of communicating with her over all the miles that separated them—not for the first time, he wondered where she lived, what it was like, if she ever sat in the candlelight as he did—he slid down in his chair at the sound of her voice, letting tense muscles uncoil.

"Ah, yes. Are you able to hear me?" he said, enunciating each syllable with extra care; his accent and diction sometimes baffled her even when they spoke in the flesh, so perhaps it would be more difficult over this telephone.

"Loud and clear. Little too loud and clear, actually. You can talk normally."

"Is—is this an inconvenient moment for you?" Perhaps he could leave another "voice mail" as a calling card? He was desperately unsure of the etiquette involved here. What if she were indisposed, or indecent? "I could call back at a later time, or I can simply see you tomorrow, if that-"

"What'd I tell you about being all English on me? You're fine. What's up?" Faintly, papers rustled.

"Did I interrupt your reading?" he asked. "I was just finishing a book of poetry-'Leaves of Grass' by-"

"Oh, man. I hated Whitman in high school. All that 'Captain, My Captain' Dead Poets Society crap. It's just cheesy."

"Given my own wartime service, I found it rather poignant," he sniffed. "And what, pray tell, were you reading that involves fewer curds and less whey?"

"Didn't say I was reading anything better. It's trash, it's stupid." Movement. "But what did you call about?"

"I divulged what I was reading; the least you could do is return the favor," he pressed. "Perhaps I shall add it to my extensive reading list."

"It's called 'Inferno,'" she began. He pounced on the familiar name.

"You call Dante 'trash'? My, I have missed many great developments in literature."

"Not quite. It's by this guy, Dan Brown. It's all secret societies and a lot about Masons, weirdly enough." His eyes drifted closed as he listened, the telephone in one hand, the glass of bourbon dangling betwixt the fingers of the other. It took him a moment to realize she'd stopped speaking.

"Do go on. Haven't you heard enough of the exploits of my brothers?"

"Well, yeah. I kinda think now, more of it may be true than I thought. But even if it's not, the good guys almost always win in his books. It's not always easy or pretty—one time this seriously bad dude got elected pope—but usually the cops get the bad guys and the world lives to fight another day."

"May life imitate art," he murmured.

"But seriously, you didn't call me to talk about books. I didn't think you'd call me unless it was life or death—even then it was pretty dicey."

He scrabbled for another topic. "Miss Jenny. How is she?"

It was as if the air between them—quite a lot of air, he mused—had suddenly grown considerably colder. "Fine. Not here. Having lunch with her tomorrow. Again, you didn't call for an update on my sister. So what's up?" she insisted.

She was far more stubborn than any mule Ichabod had ever known. Today, for instance, when he'd wanted nothing more than to scream and froth at the Horseman until poor, miserable Brooks had divulged every secret, she had calmly told him no. Her wisdom and her patience had likely saved his life.

And yet—and yet! When he'd needed her to, she'd trusted him. Never for a moment had she believed him capable of murdering his partner (or at least killing him without just cause—she was, above all, a pragmatist). When he had sworn he would stay with the Horseman, she had left him. And by then, he had been calm enough to think, to reason. To survive.

"I wished to apologize. For shouting at you today. It was uncalled for, and you have my most sincere apologies for the lapse," he said.

At first, he was worried perhaps he had offended her. But as the silence stretched, he fell into a growing concern that the telephone had waylaid their connection. He shook the device, then pressed it back against his ear. That's when he heard it.

She was laughing.

Ichabod pushed himself back upright, nearly spilling the contents of his glass. "What? What have I said now that is so amusing?"

"The fact that you felt the need to apologize for raising your voice slightly when you were trying to interrogate your mortal—no, make that immortal—enemy and knowing he had some kind of freaky connection to your wife." She hooted with laughter. "You needed to let some steam out or you were gonna pop," she said, not unkindly and still with an abundance of mirth.

He had to admit, he had felt slightly better after the outburst. "Nonetheless," he demurred, "you were not the target of my anger. It was unfair to treat you as such."

"We're cool, Crane. In the future, just remember all that stuff about your ears being open to my whatever. I know what I'm talking about. As long as we aren't talking about crazy ciphers or Middle English or something," she said.

"I know you do. You are-" He paused for a drink. Somehow, in the commission of that act, he audibly slurped. "You are a very fine witness, to say nothing of your abilities as a lieutenant."

"You drinking over there, Crane? Coulda told me, I'd've cracked a beer. Here, wait." Footsteps. He licked a stray drop of liquor from his lower lip. A door opened, then closed. An odd hiss-crack sound, then a glug. "Cheers. To knowing the Horseman's weakness."

Ichabod had hefted his glass toward the toast, but when she finished her sentence, he placed it on the table, untasted. "Yes. His weakness. My wife."

"Yeah, it's not the most convenient weakness," she said, in perhaps the single largest understatement he had yet heard—and he'd heard Franklin boast about the size of his endowment. "But it's better to know than not know. This way we can..." she trailed off. "We can make sure we can protect her."

"You don't mean that. You told me to take Lieutenant Brooks' head if he turned on us, even though you care for him in some way. The same is true of Katrina: if you believed it would save the world, you would sacrifice her in a moment." Somehow, his voice had become rather high. Almost angry. He tamped down on the emotion. Control. He must regain it.

"You pretty much killed yourself for that exact same reason. You really gonna get self-righteous on me about one person versus the world now?" Another glug. A soft sigh.

"There is a vast ocean of difference between sacrificing oneself and exacting a sacrifice from another," he said, though he knew in his heart of hearts that she was correct. And Katrina would be the first to sacrifice herself for the good of them all. There was no question of that.

"But right now, nobody's sacrificing anybody, so let's talk about something else. Like, how'd you learn to sword fight like that?"

"You mean how to lose quite unceremoniously to a far superior combatant? My father taught me, of course. Or rather, the tutors he hired did." He rested his head against the Sheriff's chair; it was wonderfully comfortable and smelled of old leather. "I always preferred firearms. With a pistol in my hand, there is no deadlier foe than I."

He could almost see her smile behind his eyelids. "Oh yeah? I'll take you to the shooting range one of these days, and we'll see who's the deadliest."

"I shall take great pleasure in besting you," he said quietly. He wedged the telephone between his cheek and shoulder. There. Better. "Tell me more of your book, of this new 'Inferno.'"

"Well, I guess it does have something to do with Dante—he was in Florence, right?"

"Yes."

"Well, so Robert Langdon, who's a world-famous cryptographer, is in Florence. Kinda reminds me of you, actually, but with seriously bad hair. So he wakes up with amnesia, and..." She kept talking until her words blurred to become pure sound, soothing and indistinct as the ocean.

He awoke sometime later, strange lines pressed against his cheek and a faint ache in his head. The telephone bore a message in too-bright green letters.

"Message from...Abbie," it read. "night. you know you snore?"


	6. Heartbreaker

Jenny placed fries on her bacon cheeseburger in a careful grid formation. Three horizontal, three vertical. Then she smothered the bun in hot sauce, replaced it, and proceeded to demolish the burger.

Abbie sipped her coffee. "Where're you staying?"

"You don't need to know. Woulda taken Corbin's cabin—bet he'd've wanted me to have it—but it's taken," Jenny said around a mouthful of burger.

Christ, how had this turned into a "no, Daddy loved me more" argument? Jesus. "If you want it that bad, I can find somewhere else for Crane. It was just convenient, is all, and the backwoods thing makes him feel more at home. But if you really want, I can get the department to pay-"

"Or we could be roomies." Jenny smiled slyly.

"Cute." This was such a mistake. Why had she thought anything would be different? That Jenny would be able to forgive her or, hell, that they'd even like each other after all this time? That ship had sailed a long time ago.

"Who said I was being cute? Don't tell me you haven't hopped on that yet. Hey, can I get some more Coke?" she yelled to Millie.

Abbie's ears felt hot. She didn't normally blush over sex, but talking about Crane that way just felt wrong. He wasn't some dude you picked up in a bar when you were lonely and horny. She'd been there, done that, but for Jenny to think of Crane that way? Wrong. Way wrong. "We are not having this conversation."

"I have been locked up in a looney bin for a long, long time, and I wasn't gay for the stay. So if you aren't shacking up with tall, weird, and British, why should I let him go to waste?"

Millie plunked a fresh cup of Coke onto the table. Abbie thanked her quietly, waiting until she was gone to continue. "He's married, if that means anything to you. Plus, he's from the eighteenth century. Don't think they did one night stands."

"Right, they were all good little boys back then. Fuck that noise." Jenny ate her fries systematically, nibbling each one with small but quick bites. No movement was wasted, and her eyes darted from side to side, like someone might take the food from her. "I'm ready to end my dry spell."

"Go for it." The chances of Crane actually sleeping with her were about as remote as the chance Abraham would grow a new head. Actually, maybe that possibility wasn't so remote. She'd have to talk to him about it. "Tell me how it works out." She shuddered. "Wait, don't. Please don't."

Jenny rolled her eyes, mopping up a last bit of ketchup with her finger. "You know how I dreamed about a burger like this? We pretty much got straight-up Oliver Twist gruel."

"I am sorry you were institutionalized," Abbie said in clipped tones. It was the only way she could avoid a string of blistering curses. "But I didn't put you in that place. You put yourself there." Ichabod had told her she had to start forgiving herself; maybe this was the first step. She had done what needed to be done, and Jenny was in charge of her own actions.

"By telling the truth. And you could've backed me up, gotten me out."

"Gotten locked up myself, more like." It was easier not to feel guilty when Jenny acted this way, all self righteous and crazier-than-thou. The guilt would probably come roaring in late tonight, while she was trying to get some sleep. When she stared up at the ceiling and tried to imagine what it had been like to live in a psych-drug haze for all those years, eating nutritional gruel.

"Keep telling yourself that, sis." Jenny threw the word and her balled napkin at Abbie, then stood and stalked toward the door. Abbie kept her face impassive, staring into the depths of her coffee cup.

Until she heard him.

"Miss Jenny, what an unexpected pleasure," said Tall, Weird ,and British.

Abbie couldn't look. She scrutinized the table, where kids had chiseled their initials in the fake wood veneer.

"Crane," Jenny drawled. "Y'know, we need to get together sometime. Just you and me. Get a drink. You know Sullivan's?"

Abbie was impressed by the quality of the hearts they'd carved around their initials. She knew from experience that shit was not easy.

"That is the tavern where the magazine used to be, yes?"

She wondered if these kids—TM+NB-were still together. Probably not, she decided.

"Sure, probably. Meet you there at eight."

The bell on the door jangled. A minute later, Ichabod came to his parade rest next to her table. Abbie ran her finger around the outlining heart, then forced herself to look up at him. She squinted. "You wearing jeans, Crane?"

He was still wearing his standby shirt and coat, but he'd swapped his breeches for a pair of the dark blue Levi's she'd picked out for him. Still had the boots, though. It was a weird mishmash of past and present, like he'd gotten half changed for a war reenactment or something. Honestly, you couldn't see much of the jeans, but still, Abbie wasn't sure she liked it.

"You did purchase them for me. I thought it rude not to wear them at least once, to see how it feels. So far it feels somewhat...binding. May I sit?"

That made her crack a smile, though it was a sad little thing. "Course."

He slid into the booth opposite her, behind Jenny's empty plate. "I take it from your rather melancholy countenance that Miss Jenny was not quite so cordial with you as she was with me."

"Nope." And she really didn't want to talk about it, thank you very much. She knew that Crane was only trying to be nice by "helping" her reconnect with Jenny, but she didn't want his help. She wasn't even sure she wanted to reconnect. "Least I can say I tried." Ish.

Crane opened his mouth, and she was sure she was in for a lecture, but Millie swooped in with a heaping helping of pot roast and a glass of water. No ice, but a bendy straw. "Extra carrots for you, Ichabod, just like you like."

"Miss Millie, you are far too good to me. My most profound gratitude to both you and your fine cook." As always, Abbie was amazed at how much he seemed to mean what he said. She said words like "please" and "thank you" because she was supposed to; but for him, they were important and heartfelt.

As soon as Millie stepped away, Crane leaned forward. "Truth be told, I already ate—it seems a waste to consume pre-prepared food when there is such a stockpile in my dwelling. But the serving woman is determined to fatten me up. Will you assist me?"

Abbie shook her head, but dished a portion of the roast and vegetables onto Jenny's empty plate. "Between her and Jenny, you're gonna be quite the heartbreaker in this town."

"Miss Jenny? What does she have to do with breaking hearts?" Despite his protests, he wasted no time chowing down.

"She just asked you out on a date, Crane." Or at least a booty call, she added to herself. No way she was explaining that modern concept to him.

Crane's brown furrowed. He lay down his fork and knife, one crossed over the other. "You mean to say she is courting me? But-"

Abbie shook her head. "No way. I am not getting in the middle of this. You two work it all out. You want to get with my sister, that's your guys' business. Not mine." She pushed pearl onions around her plate, appetite gone.

"Miss Jenny is a lovely young woman and a great asset to our cause, but I don't wish to 'get with' her. Assuming that means what I think it means." Abbie nodded confirmation. "I feel nothing for her except admiration for her abilities and friendship. Besides, it would be most untoward."

"Yeah. You being married and all." That's why Abbie felt a vague sense of outrage about all of this. It was her sister. And the guy who was fast becoming her best friend. And he was married. Just wrong on all levels.

"'til death do us part," Crane said, his lips slashing into a mirthless smile. "I believe we've gone quite a bit beyond that, at this point." He turned his head to the side, eyes sharpening. "Did you ever reconnect with your former beau?"

"Morales? No. Called a few times, but he's not answering. Guess he's mad I stood him up. Which is cool. He's the one who wanted to be friends in the first place, not me."

He was still looking at her, all intense and piercing. "Do you believe it's possible to be amicable with someone for whom you hold romantic intentions?"

She looked away. "Didn't work for you and Katrina."

"I was prepared to do precisely that, for the sake of her happiness and Abraham's."

"But she wasn't."

"No."

Abbie stretched her arms over her head. Her back popped with a satisfying twinge. She settled back down and shrugged. "I've never had it work out. Things just always start to get weird. One side wants things they can't have, and...I dunno. Once somebody realizes they're in love, they're always gonna be hurt, you know? Even if they still like being friends, they're gonna want that little bit more."

"Perhaps you're right."

They both picked at their pot roast. "But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I should give it another shot with Luke."

"He seems very..." Crane paused, clearly searching his vast vocabulary for just the right word. "...Committed to the constabulary."

"Go ahead. Say it." Crane arched an eyebrow. "Say you hate his guts."

He laughed, ducking his head. "I do not know him well enough to hate him at this stage; I shall reserve judgment. But if you care for him, there must be some worth to his character which has not yet been revealed to me. If his friendship is worth having, you should try again."

"Yeah. He's not a bad guy. Dunno that's he's that good a guy, but he's not bad, either. And you should go for drinks with Jenny. If you want."

"Perhaps we could...what is the phrase? 'Double date'? Platonically, of course."

Abbie rolled her eyes, gesturing for the check. "Let the Horseman take me now."

"Don't say such things, even in jest," said Crane, scandalized.

"Jest is all we got left."

"And each other."

She smiled. "Yeah. That too."


	7. Well Done

Most of the bottle of rum was gone before she persuaded him to visit her home and partake in the remnants of the Thanksgiving meal. Truth be told, he did not want to go, but he knew he needed to. Left to his own devices, he would brood and think and research feverishly. The whole world could perish and he would not give a damn, as long as he knew the fate of his son.

The words still made his heart flutter. Some part of him wondered, anxiously, if he would be a good father, though he knew the idea was absurd. The boy—his boy—had lived and, in all likelihood, died, centuries ago. Even if his son had survived the demonic forces swirling all about them, even if he had lived a joyful, long life (albeit one without a father), he would still be dead.

He would never know his son.

Unless...was there a way the boy could be with Katrina? It was not a fate to wish for, but if it meant he could gaze upon his son, learn his name, see if he had Katrina's flaming red hair and his own too-long nose, perhaps...

But no. Surely Katrina would have mentioned if she had a companion in her shadowy world. Though she was better at keeping secrets than he had suspected.

"Keep the change," Mills said, pressing a bill into the cab hostler's hand. She slammed her door, and he scrambled to follow her up the path to her apartment.

This, this right here, this was why he could not isolate himself. He would have time and opportunity for that, but if he were ever going to learn more about his son or a way to free the child's mother, it would take Abbie's help. Mills, he reminded himself sternly. And it was true: she was clever and brave and strong. She could make connections in a way that astounded him, such as discovering the miraculous cure of the waters of Roanoke. If there was a way to save his family, he would require her assistance to find it.

But it was more than that. She had kept him sane in these first days of madness. Sometimes, he had been able to forget for whole minutes what he had lost. In those instants, he could almost envision a future here, a time when the apocalypse had been averted and he simply lived in this monstrous and wondrous era. And in those futures, all he could see was her.

Now? Now he couldn't go a second without thinking of what had been stolen from him. He needed her to ground him, help him, perhaps-

The unmistakable odor of scorched flesh assaulted Ichabod's nostrils before they reached Mills' door. "Dear God." He was instantly on guard, crouched and searching for a weapon. "Some sort of fire demon, perhaps? I don't detect brimstone, but-"

She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the door, keys dangling from her fingers. Her shoulders slumped."It's not a demon." She lifted her head and fitted her key to the lock. "Hope you like your turkey well done."

Once the door had been opened, the stench intensified and he at once divined her meaning. There on the table was a massive turkey. It was almost entirely black. Sullen smoke continued to rise from the charred corpse.

"Jenny?" she called. When there was no answer, she checked first her telephone, then the small round table dominated by the bird. "No text. No note. Nice. Real nice."

Ichabod stepped into her narrow kitchen, fashioned quite like a ship's galley. More indignities presented themselves: potatoes, still in their jackets, had boiled dry on the stove. An opened can revealed a gelatinous purple mound. He prodded it with a finger; it sprung back. Aspic in a can? He shuddered.

"Do you think Miss Jenny is all right? Could something have happened to her, to call her away so unexpectedly?" He wiped his soiled finger on his breeches.

"I think she saw that she fucked up and ran for the hills," she said flatly. She twisted a knob on the stove, extinguishing the heat beneath the potatoes. "I was trying to do the right thing by having her live with me. I'm her conservator, so she can't just be living...wherever the hell she was living. But-" she bit off the word and shook her head. "Sorry. So much for Thanksgiving dinner."

"You owe me no apologies. On the contrary, your sister owes you a rather significant one for leaving your home in such a state." He strode to the window and threw open the sash. Frigid but fresh air seeped in.

"Yeah, well, I ain't gonna hold my breath waiting for it. This is just classic Jenny." She bent, retrieving a black sack from beneath her sink. She approached the turkey warily, as if it might spring to life. He couldn't rule out the possibility that it might.

"You are simply going to accept her deplorable behavior? Clean up her mess and pretend this never happened? No. I refuse. Send her a message or signal with your telephone. Speak to her. This is unacceptable behavior in your home," he said.

"It won't help. You gonna give me a hand with this?" She shook the sack open.

"At the very least, you should not have to toil to rectify her thoughtlessness."

Her hand slammed onto the table with surprising force. The turkey levitated slightly, then collapsed even further upon itself. "What do you want me to do, Crane? I'm not going to sit with this mess in my house so I can prove a point to my asshole sister."

Crane took a step back, shocked by the anger in her voice. She must have seen his surprise, for the anger bled away at once. "I'm sorry. This is all just...it's so stupid, compared to what you're going through. I don't even have a right to complain about anything," she said.

"What absolute twaddle," he said at once. "Pain is not a competition, and the good Lord knows there is more than enough to share between us. You are entitled to sorrow or anger or any other emotion you like." Were it a competition, he did rather suspect he would win, but his words were still true. Family was always difficult; hers held particular challenges.

She opened her mouth to reply, then turned her head to the side and smiled. "Did you just say 'twaddle'?"

His brow furrowed. "Yes. What of it?"

"And you make fun of 'selfie'?"

"It is a ludicrous word for a self-indulgent concept. But you, Miss Mills, are changing the subject." He stepped forward and took the plastic sack from her. He held it open while she disposed of the turkey. A criminal waste of a beautiful bird.

"There's nothing to say. Wish there were. Wish I thought I could change her. But I can't. Jenny's gonna do what Jenny's gonna do. All I can do is make sure she doesn't get herself killed until she's back on her own two feet." She shrugged and tied off the top of the bag. "I'm gonna go take this to the Dumpster. You wanna start running some hot water?"

She left without waiting for an answer, but he did not immediately adjourn to the kitchen. He took the moment to examine her home. With the exception of the carnage in the kitchen, it was all quite tidy. Small, but he liked that. Compact and efficient, like her. The walls were mostly bare of decoration, white and plain, save for a bookshelf full to the brim with titles. A pillow and several folded blankets were stacked neatly on the couch, no doubt Miss Jenny's bed of late. A corridor led, presumably, to bed and bathing chambers. Curiosity beckoned, but he would not pry.

Crane followed his orders, running hot water (truly, the greatest miracle of the modern age) and beginning to scrub the potato pan. She returned and took her place beside him. "You have a lovely home," he said earnestly. "It suits you."

"It's not much, but it's mine." Her voice was tinged with pride.

Ichabod cast his mind back to the house of horrors. "You are fond of your home. Is that why you dislike haunted houses with such vehemence?"

"Maybe. I disliked that one 'cause it was trying to kill us. But I guess...bad stuff doesn't happen at home. It happens in the woods, in the streets. If even the place you lay your head isn't safe, nowhere is."

He liked that idea; he would not mention the revolutionaries killed in their homes, the slaughter of native peoples in their dwellings. It was too lovely a notion to ruin it with something as petty as reality.

They worked in silence for a time. His thoughts drifted to home, a word which had meant so many things. An estate in England, rolling and green. A cramped dormitory in Cambridge. The small but happy home he had shared, far too briefly, with Katrina.

He shied away from the thought. Not now. Now, he would be with his friend. "If you wish, I could speak to Miss Jenny."

She laughed, squirting a brightly colored liquid into the water. It foamed furiously. "Tell me how that conversation would go down."

"I would merely explain to her that regardless of the difficulties between you, there is no excuse for rudeness. That punishing you is not productive, and that you two should be kind to each other. After all, she is the last of your blood, is she not?"

"Probably got some cousins somewhere," she said. "But no, I don't want you to talk to her. Thanks, though. But we'll work it out. If she wants to, we'll work it out."

"I only wish that I could help more. You have..." He cleared his throat. "You have done so much for me. Even before today, you have been an immense comfort to me. Thanks alone are insufficient, but I shall offer them regardless. Thank you."

"You're welcome." She took the pot from him, wiping it dry with a cloth. "And Crane? You help a lot. Just not having to deal with this alone helps. I know this all sucks for you pretty hardcore, but I'm glad you're here."

He offered a thin smile. The situation did, indeed, suck. But if they must bear the weight, at least they could carry it together.


	8. Action and Reaction

"I am already proficient in the use of firearms." He sounded like a kid whining that he'd already brushed his teeth. Well, he could pout all he wanted, but he needed a break from combing genealogy books for any trace of his son. There'd be time for that—or they'd talk to Katrina, which wouldn't be awkward at all—but he needed to get out and do something. Might as well be something useful.

"You know how to use a flintlock pistol. Guns today are different, and if you keep shooting them one-handed, you're gonna get yourself killed. Or me." He held the door for her as they walked into the shooting range; she handled getting their ear protection and weapons. "Just sign 'em both out in my name, Walter. Thanks."

They had the place to themselves; at the tail end of Thanksgiving weekend, most guys were still with their families. She'd seen Jenny only once since the turkey fiasco, and it hadn't gone well. So maybe, just maybe, this little field trip was a good distraction for her, too.

But mostly for him. And in the name of keeping him from getting his skinny ass killed.

She carefully placed the ear protection, firearms, and clips on the table near range number three. Crane immediately grabbed the oversized earphones. "What on earth are these for? Do you listen to music while you shoot?" He held the ear pieces far apart, then let them spring together.

"It's to keep you from going deaf. A handgun in an enclosed space like this is real loud." Abbie inspected both weapons—sometimes they got sloppy with the cleaning—but these seemed okay.

"Ah. It is perhaps too late for me. During the War, we did not have such protection, and I assure you, even in outdoor spaces, the sound of cannon fire could leave your ears ringing for days."

"You sound almost like you miss it."

"Most of it, no. But the moments when thought fled and all that remained was pure instinct, action and reaction, all of that noise but the sound of your heart roaring above it all...yes, perhaps. Perhaps I do." His lips twitched sideways for a sec, but then he pointed to the paper cutouts sitting next to them. "Shall we use targets or these charming human-shaped cutouts?"

"No point in pretending we aren't shooting at people. Or people-shaped things, anyway." She clipped one of the cutouts to the target and wound it into place. "Okay. We're working with Glock nine millimeter pistols. Standard issue for cops."

"As I said, I have fired one before," he insisted. "Certainly I have seen you fire them on multiple occasions."

"You got lucky. That is not how you handle a weapon like this." Guns were to be respected and handled on their own terms. Maybe his stance was right for a dueling pistol or whatever the hell he'd used, but this was a goddamn Glock. Different rules.

"It achieved the desired result," he sniffed.

Abbie started to argue with him again, then shrugged. "'kay. You put the clip in until you hear it click. Then you pull the slide back. Make sure the safety's off—this button—and you're ready to fire." As she narrated, she prepped one of the pistols. Then, with the safety on, she handed him the weapon, butt first. "Let's see what you've got. There's six rounds in there. If you can get three in a kill zone, I'll take you back and let you mope all day."

"I was not moping-"

"You were moping. Not that you don't have good reasons and all, but still. Now if you want to get back to it, kill some paper bad guys." He muttered something she couldn't make out, but turned toward the target. "Ear protection, Crane." She tossed him a pair. There was more muttering as he put them on. She grinned and did the same.

He took that dueling stance he'd used before: turned to the side, gun at the end of a stiff arm, the other tucked behind his back. Ready, aim, fire. His arm shuddered with the recoil, though not as much as she'd expected. The bullet hole appeared in the cutout's upper shoulder, almost off the paper. He glanced back at her, but she just held up five fingers.

To his credit, he did get two in the kill zone: one solidly in the chest and another about where the subject's teeth would be. She gave him that one, though it wasn't a definite kill. The others were either off the paper or low on the target's torso.

They tugged their protection off. "Perhaps," he said slowly, looking down at the weapon, "there is a thing or two you might teach me about these 'Clocks.'"

"Glocks and you know it."

He cracked what might be the first genuine smile she'd seen since he'd discovered he was father to a lost boy. "I shall allow you to teach me-"

"Oh, thanks for that."

"-Provided you, at some later date, allow me to instruct you in the sword."

"Thought you said you sucked at sword fighting."

"'Suck' is perhaps a strong word. Actually, I'm not sure. Is it a strong word?" he asked curiously.

"Are you really bad at it?"

"Only in comparison to Abraham. He was something special." His eyes were far away again, looking into a past only he could see.

Nope. "Sure. You find some swords and we'll play pirates. But in the meantime, we're learning to use pistols." She slid him a clip. "Put this in."

Together, they walked through all the basic Gun Handling 101 stuff. If they were really going to be partners—in the police sense, they already were in every other sense of that word—he needed to know how to handle himself with modern weaponry.

"Feet shoulder width apart, your right foot back a little. Bend your knees. No, less. Good."

He shifted his weight from foot to foot. "This feels very odd."

"That's 'cause you keep turning your hips. Stop that." She put her hands on either side of his waist and tugged him back toward center. He froze, obliques tensing beneath her fingers, and she immediately stepped back, hands in the air.

"No, Ab—excuse me, Leftenant. You're quite all right. It's simply..." He looked back at her, and goddammit, there was nothing simple about that look. It was lonely, lost, hungry. He wanted someone he couldn't have, at least not right now. Someone he might not ever see again. Way to go, Mills. Great job cheering the dude up.

"Sorry. Just, your hips were wrong," she said lamely. Even from that brief touch, she could smell him on her hands, like leather and old books.

"Do not apologize," he said softly, and something inside of Abbie ached. It was just because he was in pain, she told herself. More shit she couldn't fix. But...

But nothing. There were no buts in this situation. "Hip position is really important, though. Helps keep you stable and on-target. Your body's conditioned to turn to the side, so you're gonna have to fight that impulse. Just stay fixed on your target. Now, about your hands."

It would have been easier to take his hands and mold them into proper carrying position, but no way. She coached him instead, making sure he married his thumbs and kept his wrists down.

"Just remember to keep your arms bent just a little and you should be good to go. Oh, and before you were compensating to the right. These guys are pretty accurate, no need to do that."

Crane started to take the Weaver stance she'd just taught him, but then stopped. He placed the safety on the firearm—good boy—and handed it to her. "Would you care to demonstrate? I need to see all the pieces together, to make sure I do not make the same mistakes."

"Sure." They both put on their ear protection and she assumed her stance. It felt familiar, good. She liked shooting. Well, targets. Didn't much like shooting people. But the repetitive movements, the concentration, it was a nice head space to be in.

She didn't kill zone all six bullets. Just five. Her hand twitched and she went too far to the left, leaving the guy with a side wound that probably would've killed him, given enough time. When she turned to Ichabod, he was clapping politely, like they were at a golf match. Not that that would've meant anything to him. Then she started picturing him in one of those poofy hats and the plaid pants and dissolved into laughter.

He stared at her, and his wide eyes under his big headphones just made her laugh harder. He tore off his own protection, then, gently, pulled hers away from her ears. "You know how I hate missing out on a joke."

"It wouldn't make any sense if I explained it to you," she gasped.

His eyes gleamed. "Have I mentioned how much I'm looking forward to our fencing lessons?"

"Hey, you'll get your turn at kicking my ass. But not until you put in the work." She reached for another cutout, but paused. "Would it help if I cut the head off?"

He smiled grimly. Then he wound the target into place and drilled three shots into its heart.


	9. Parry

"Again," he ordered. "This time, mind your feet. Your strides must be longer, lest your feet become tangled and you find yourself in this position again."

She glared up at him from where she sprawled in the dirt, but took his proffered hand and rose. Despite the chill autumn air, her cotton shirt was saturated with perspiration, clinging to her body in ways Ichabod studiously ignored. He stooped to retrieve her fallen practice sword, offering it to her with a flourish.

"This isn't really fair," she grumbled cheerfully. "You already knew how to shoot a gun. Swords pretty much stopped being a thing right after the Revolution. It's all new to me."

"The weapon itself, perhaps. But you are familiar with the basic tenants of unarmed combat. The same principles of weight distribution and observing your opponent are in play here. We are simply adding sharp pointy objects to the equation."

To be fair, the practice swords were neither sharp nor pointy; they were crude wooden things he'd fashioned from lumber scavenged from the forest behind his—pardon, Sheriff Corbin's—cabin. The balance was all wrong and his was far too light, but they served, just as this clearing behind the cabin was an adequate dueling ring.

"En garde," he said, snapping his sword up smartly. "Prête."

"We gotta do the French?" she asked as she saluted.

"Yes. Allez."

They circled one another with slow, even steps. She surveyed him warily, as he had taught, but she was watching his sword. The real danger lay in his feet, for he would have to step toward her long before he could strike. He could have easily disarmed her, but he exercised patience.

She lashed out with a few standard strikes, all of which he parried. The thwack of the wooden swords was almost hypnotic. Here, there was no need to think, no need to remember. He appreciated that a great deal.

Eventually she wearied of his counters and stepped back, clearly calculating her next move. He waited. When it came, she offered a low slash just below his knees. A perfectly sound tactical decision: she was already close to the ground, and keeping her blow similarly low meant she did not open herself to attack. It was a perfect guard for protecting her most vulnerable places.

Of course, it was a simple matter for him to step to one side, snap his sword between her arm and body and, with a light tap, spin her so he had access to her perfectly vulnerable back. She tried to rally and whirl to face him, but he used her momentum to send her tumbling to the ground.

She was still blinking, dazed, when he gave the order. "Again."

Quick as a snake, she hooked one foot around the back of his knees. He struggled to the appropriate counter maneuver—moving his feet apart and stepping over her, child's play—but she had caught him in a moment of inattention. He managed to avoid falling directly onto her, but it was a near thing.

"Ow," he said.

"You big baby." He glanced over at her just in time to see her shake her head. "Probably not the best choice of words."

"If you please, Miss Mills, drawing attention to idioms which were well-worn even in my day only serves to exacerbate the awkwardness of the situation."

"Fair point." She arched her back and there was a faint creaking of bones. He worried he may have struck her too hard; he also knew she would be the first to chide him for holding back against her. "Are you-"

"Okay." He coughed up the word as if it were a bit of phlegm. "Yes. I believe okay is exactly what I am, and I do wish you would cease inquiring over my mental state with such regularity. I am not made of glass. I shall endure." Perhaps if he said it enough times, it would become true.

"Okay." She seemed to take no offense at his snappishness, though certainly she had the right to.

Neither one of them moved from the ground, despite the chill that sneaked into their bones from the loamy earth. Above them, the sky was brilliantly blue and free of airplanes or other nuisances. From this angle, there was nothing at all to intrude upon his fantasy that they were in this very spot more than two hundred years ago.

Nothing except her.

"Does it make you uncomfortable, being in the forest?" he asked. Bad things happen in the woods, she had said. Certainly she had ample reason to hate the dark, leafless limbs around them, but she seemed at ease.

"It's not my favorite place. But you like it. And believe it or not, Sleepy Hollow does not have a fencing...whatever the hell place you practice fencing. So it works. Let's just not stay after dark, 'kay?"

"A reasonable request." He crumbled a leaf between his fingers, the earthy scent familiar and soothing. "Imagine you could go back to when you were young, to just after you saw Moloch with Miss Jenny. Would you behave differently? Would you corroborate her story?"

Leaves rustled. "Why would you ask me that?"

"Curiosity. Apologies if I have offended." He did not believe he had, however. She was questioning him to gain time to think. He would give her ample opportunity.

A raven croaked in the distance. They both shuddered.

"Knowing what I know now...no. I wouldn't." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her chin jutting up defiantly. "I wouldn't," she repeated, quite daring him to challenge her. "This town wasn't ready. I wasn't ready." He started to speak, but she continued in an unusual bout of loquaciousness. "I think maybe Jenny had to go through all that stuff to become the soldier we need her to be. And maybe I had to go through all that stuff to be the witness I've gotta be. That makes me a shitty sister, but there are bigger things going on than sisterhood."

"You are not a..." No, he couldn't bring himself to use the vulgarity with such casualness. "You are not a bad sister."

"I'm not a good one, either. But what about you, Crane? If I could wave a magic wand right now and poof, you're back in 1781, maybe a little banged up after the battle but basically okay. Would you go?"

He began to answer that of course he would, and did she perchance have such a magic wand on her person? But then questions began to bubble inside him. "In this hypothetical situation, would the—would Abraham be dead?"

"It isn't—"

"And even if he were, the Hessians would have found someone else to imbue with the spirit of death. You cannot not have death; that isn't the way of the world."

"You're-"

"And so they would have crowned a new pale rider and oh dear, here comes the apocalypse again. Even under the best of circumstances, let us say the world muddled along until now without being devoured by Judgment Day. Where does that leave you? One witness against the forces of evil? This task is impossible enough with two—not that I haven't the greatest admiration for your abilities in this battle-"

"Crane." The word stopped him, silenced his whirring mind. He turned to her. "You're making this more complicated than it needs to be. I'm just asking: If right now, you could go back to the way you were. If you could go have tea and crumpets with your wife and your baby and not worry about this battle. Would you do it?"

He sat up, drawing his knees toward his chest. He plucked a leaf from his hair. "Why would you ask me that?"

"Because I needed a break from the ass kicking." Her voice was light, but her eyes were grave.

He would not tell her of the hours spent on his knees before Katrina's grave, begging for a sign, a word, a vision, any hint of knowledge. He would not tell her of the time spent in blinding despair as his wife's face grew ever dimmer, as her voice faded from memory, as the idea of his son became ever more ephemeral, the ghost of a boy rather than flesh and blood.

But nor would he tell her how beautiful he found this new world. Perplexing, yes. Baffling, certainly. But it was a world of flight and music; a world of stunning art and devastating destruction. Were he to return to his simpler time, he would miss the wonders and adventures here and now.

Under no circumstances would he tell her that his life would be infinitely poorer without her in it. Instead, he would parry.

"You are asking me for a simple answer, but I have none to give. And it is idle talk in the end. We are both where and when we are meant to be." His hand closed around his fallen sword. "And, Lieutenant, you have stalled quite long enough." He jabbed her lightly in the ribs. "To arms."

She seized the tip of the sword . "I will break that thing over my knee if you keep poking me with it."

He laughed. "For our next lesson, I shall endeavor to obtain real swords. Blunted, of course, but you'll find it's quite a different sensation to use finely balanced steel than these clumsy things."

"Next time, huh?" She brushed debris from her hindquarters. "Didn't we trade lessons one for one?"

"Indeed we did. But we both know you will not be able to walk away until you have bested me. And you won't do that today."

Her lips curved into a self-deprecating smile. "Yeah, okay. But I will beat you one of these days."

"Of that, I have no doubt. Now, en garde."


	10. All the Way Home

Abbie pounded on the cabin door. "Crane. I need to talk to you." Nothing. "I know you're in there." A rustle, maybe a sigh, but no answer. "You're new to cell phones and all, but it's still rude to break up with your partner by text message."

The string of texts had been waiting for her when she came out of the shower. "My Fellow Witness," the first text began. Oh yeah, that didn't sound ominous at all. It only got worse as she kept reading:

"There are no words to express the gratitude and depth of affection I hold for you. Your friendship has given me my few moments of true happiness and joy since my awakening, and I shall never be able to repay that kindness. Indeed, if Moloch's words are correct, I shall only repay you in betrayal and heartache, as I always have done—first to Abraham, then to Jeremy.

For your sake, and only for your sake, I humbly request that we part ways. It is only in this separation that you can hope to keep your soul—your strong, virtuous, and brave soul!-in tact. If I cannot deliver that soul to Moloch, you will be free. You will be safe.

Yes, we are witnesses and we are bound together. But bonds can be broken. Just as my tie to the Horseman was shattered, so shall I sever this bond between us. We shall continue the war, but we must take up arms in different battles.

Please understand the pain this decision causes me, Abbie. You are, and always shall remain, my friend.

With fondest regards,

Ichabod Crane."

On the drive to the cabin, fumed at him, but mostly at herself. She should have known better, but she'd been trying to do the right thing. He'd asked for some time alone, and she'd assumed it was to mourn Jeremy and get his head on straight so they could gear up for Moloch. It seemed like the least she could do. So she'd given him a day. Which, stupid. They should have fenced, researched, chopped wood, eaten donuts. It didn't matter what they did, but too much time for alone was bad news for Crane. Then he started thinking and wallowing in guilt and then she got shit like this.

She knocked again. "You know I've got a key. You also know I could pick that lock or break the door down. But I'm not, because I trust you. You get to make your own decisions, but you don't get to decide the fate of the world like this. Not alone. Now open up."

"Miss Mills, please leave. My intentions have been made quite clear." Crane's voice was muffled, wavery, and thin. She wondered if he'd slept since he'd been pulled through the mirror. She hadn't.

"Yeah, well, my intention is to sit right here until you open up and talk to me." It was freezing; she really would prefer to do this sitting by the fire. But instead, she sank into the old rocking chair Corbin kept on the porch, pulling her coat close. The air smelled of pine from the wreath she'd hung on his door, back before all this began.

She sat patiently, listening to the wind whine through the trees. "I never could figure out why Corbin loved the woods so much. You can't see more than a few feet in front of you, they're dark, they always have that weird rotting smell. Plus, they're full of demons."

She thought she heard a faint snort through the door. There. Quantico had wanted Abbie for a reason: she was damn good at sizing up a person, figuring out their weak points, knowing just the right amount of pressure to apply. In a different life, she'd have made a good criminal profiler; she could say that without any ego. She'd squirreled under Henry's defenses with just a few words. But Crane? He was going to be harder to crack.

She could do it. She had to.

"I've spent my whole life being scared of Moloch. Jenny was the brave one. She'd have brought everyone down on him with pitchforks and torches from the very beginning. But you know what I did? Well, I lied. But after that, I went to church. And man, I prayed so hard. I thought that if I could just be good enough, if God liked me enough, maybe that thing wouldn't come back for me." She'd hit every church in town, searching for even a little bit of security and peace. She liked the Episcopal church best—less flashy than the Catholics, but with a comforting sense of tradition. Plus they did blessings there, and she'd wanted all those that she could get.

"But praying didn't keep him away," she continued. "The deeper we get into this, the less I think God has to do with it. Moloch's just another monster, and you and me? We fight monsters, and we win. But to be honest with you, he still scares me. It's even scarier to know he's gunning for me." She swallowed, seeing the same shadowy image that had appeared in her dreams every single solitary night for the last decade. Since Ichabod had given his warning, the image had become clearer and clearer every time she closed her eyes. "Don't make me fight him alone."

She scrubbed at her eyes with the back of one hand. The sun was going down so fast; she didn't want to be in these woods after dark.

"I have failed all those I have cared for," he said softly. She almost lost the words in the wind. "You are all I have left. I cannot see you hurt by my hand."

"Oh, so as long as you don't have to see it, it's okay if he eats my soul? That's all cool as long as it's not by your hand?" Keep him talking. That was the key.

"Moloch said I would deliver your soul to him." His voice cracked; he sounded utterly broken. Abbie pressed her palm against the rough wooden door. She pulled it away again, feeling dumb. "If I am not near you, if we are not...entwined, as it were, your soul will be safe."

Abbie forced anger into her voice; all she really felt was tired. "There are two things wrong with that. The first is, 'Moloch says.' Why the hell would you believe a demon? Their whole point is to mess with you! That is why they exist. You're smarter than that." Abbie really, really hoped she was right about that. But either way, the thought was logical. It would make sense to him.

"And the second?"

"The second is that what he's telling you is impossible. Can't happen. You can't deliver my soul anywhere because it's mine. If anybody gives it away, it'll be me. And at least in the short-term, I like my soul right where it is. So will you please open the door?" Abbie didn't have any idea if that was true or not; she didn't remember anybody giving their soul away in the Bible, but clearly the Bible left a lot of shit out. Maybe Ichabod could hand her soul over. Maybe he would, if he was given the chance to have his wife and son back. It was definitely possible.

But she knew she wasn't wrong about him. Crane was only the second person in her life she'd ever really trusted, and her gut still told her he wouldn't screw her over. Even knowing that he might, she still didn't want anyone but him watching her back.

"Ichabod, please," she said finally. Maybe she should have said the rest: that she needed him. That she cared about him. That neither of them had to do this alone. But for so many reasons, those words just wouldn't—couldn't-come. "Just let me in."

The door groaned and settled, as if a weight had leaned against it. When the wind was still, she could hear him breathing. But for once in his life, Crane was quiet.

She rocked slowly until the sun turned the sky to that icy orange you only see in the winter. Just as the last rays slipped away, she stood. "When you're ready to stop feeling sorry for yourself, you know where to find me."

"Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" poured from the radio as she started her car. Some awful noise, partway between a laugh and a sob, clawed its way up from the depths of her belly. Then she squared her shoulders, put the car into gear, and sang all the way home.


	11. Adeste Fideles

The very weather itself told Ichabod to turn back. You are a danger, the wind whispered. You are a traitor, the snow snickered. But despite the elements, he refused to bow his shoulders or slow his steps. He had spent time enough listening to those voices, and tonight was a night for miracles, a night for hope.

The red doors of Christ Episcopal Church were thrown open despite the weather, and warm light spilled onto the snow. With its crenelated tower and vaulted windows, it looked uncannily like the parish church of his childhood home. But the familiarity was not what made him break into a run, the flimsy plastic bag in his hand flapping in the wind.

"Miss Mills!"

She stopped, just on the edge of the halo of light which surrounded the church. He had fretted over this moment—among hundreds of other things he had fretted over—on his long walk here. Would she be vexed with him? Would she turn him away? Certainly she would be right to do so. He had failed her, had let his fear of losing her overcome his duty to her.

But when she saw him, her face was illuminated, her smile so bright, it was as if she had indeed seen an angel hovering o'er a humble stable. Despite his worry, the same transformation overtook him as he drew to a halt before her. "Good evening."

"Hey. How'd you know I'd be here?" Snowflakes caught in her dark eyelashes; she blinked them away.

"After your...discussion of your faith, I found it likely you would seek a spiritual home on this eve," he said. "Miss Millie, of the diner, was able to inform me of your church of choice."

"Small towns, no secrets. Well, c'mon."

She turned toward the church, but he took hold of her sleeve, holding it lightly between his thumb and forefinger. "Momentarily. Miss Mills, I feel I must explain-"

"Nope."

This was not at all how he had envisioned this conversation. He had imagined more anger, more disappointment, more recrimination. "But I deserted you."

She rolled her eyes with clear disdain—though if disdain could be fond, hers assuredly was. "Crane. You're back now. You gonna freak out on me like that again?"

"I do not hold such intentions, no, but I must make it clear-"

"You gonna fight along with me?"

"Yes of course, that is why I am here, but Miss Mills, you keep interrupting-"

Another smile of pure light. "Now you know how it feels, huh?" Crane winced, thinking how scandalized his dear mother would be to hear of him interrupting a lady. But such thoughts evaporated as the woman before him wrapped her arms around him in a fierce hug. On instinct, he returned the gesture, as ever startled that someone so small could be so very strong. "You're here now," she said into his coat. "Try not to be a fucking idiot again, okay? No more listening to demons."

Despite the insult, he laughed. It was still difficult for him laugh, after learning about the life of misery his Jeremy had led, but he knew he must re-learn the skill, for Jeremy's sake as much as anyone's. His son had known too little laughter. "I shall do my utmost."

"Good. Now let's go get churched."

The church was full nearly to bursting; families chattered in English and oddly accented Spanish. "Grab some candles," she instructed, and he selected two cheap white tapers with clever paper skirts from a box. When he turned back toward her, she was filling a silver drinking flask with blessed water from the font. "Never hurts," she said with a shrug, tucking it into her jacket pocket.

They squeezed into the end of a hard wooden pew and together with what felt like the entire combined population of Sleepy Hollow and Tarrytown, celebrated the holiday. They sang songs which were achingly familiar yet exhilarating new: At some point, "Adeste Fideles" had been anglicized to "O Come All Ye Faithful"; "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing" had been transformed into a dull dirge into a soaring testament of joy. He did his best to sing with all his voice, to seek solace in the joined communion of souls, stumbling along with the words projected on massive screens. Beside him, Miss Mills proved to be a capable and enthusiastic mezzosoprano.

They sat so the vicar could tell the story of the Christ child, and Ichabod's thoughts could not but wander to another child born in humble circumstances and trying, desperate times. It was Jeremy who had drawn him back to his destiny beside the lieutenant. Because of his absence, his child had suffered. Because he had not been there to protect him, Jeremy's only friend had been a murderous monster, his only solace in running and escape. Ichabod could not condemn his friend to the same fate. Perhaps he could not avert whatever was coming. But if he was not beside her, he could not even attempt to do so.

At the climax of the service, the electric lights were doused. A single candle was lit from the large advent candles near the altar. As the light was passed from hand to hand, they sang softly a song which he had never heard before, a song of silent nights, holy infants, and quaking shepherds. The gentleman beside him lit his candle; Ichabod shared the flame with Miss Mills, and they both shared a smile.

By unspoken but mutual consent, they traveled to her home. The plainness of the little apartment had been transformed for the holiday: a wreath on the door which was a twin of his own, a small tree bedecked with lights and with a few parcels underneath. On the wall, a familiar sock hung, though this one was emblazoned with "Abbie." Beside it was a tack, as if another sock had once hung there.

"You place them on the wall?" he asked, pulling his own hosiery from the little bag he carried.

"Should be over the mantle, but I don't have a fireplace. Why'd you bring yours?" she asked as she returned from the kitchen with two bottles of beer. Ichabod shuddered, not looking forward to choking down the thin and vile swill. But he would, and without complaint. Not tonight.

"I was unsure of the exact function of the sock. I did not know if perhaps it was worn this night, or if it had some other use or meaning."

"Sure it does. Santa puts presents in it. Here." She traded his stocking for a bottle and pinned it in the empty spot.

"Whose sock hung there before?" he asked quietly. He noticed that there were no folded bedclothes on the couch.

"Jenny's. But she hasn't really been here much. Or at all. Don't tell anyone what a bad conservator I am."

"I do wish she were here. This is a night when you should be with family." They both seated themselves on the couch, their knees quite close together. He knew he should move, pull away and give her an appropriate distance, but...

When he had returned from the hellish land beyond the mirror, Miss Mills had raced to his side and taken his hand. He had replayed that moment again and again during his sequestration in the cabin. Even in that instant of intense fear, he had felt...something. Something which was not at all proper for a man who had just sworn to rescue his beloved wife (and mother of his child). Katrina was beloved, but much was changing. He wondered how many other half-truths and omissions she had made. And Miss Mills was simply...

Simply not his wife, he concluded.

"Hey, I'm just glad I didn't have to work tonight. Any family at all is a bonus." She drank deeply. "So did you guys open presents Christmas Eve or Christmas morning? Everybody does it differently."

"Gifts were not terribly important," he said. "It was more about parties and pageantry. A great deal of dancing; an obscene amount of eating. Mummery, pantomimes, music...even during Valley Forge, we found ways to make music." Unfortunately, some of their best players had lost fingers to frostbite, but they had found a way to create a small patch of joy in the unremitting cold. "But I understand gifts are essential today, and to that end, I have a small item." He paused as he reached into his sack. "A trifle, really, you understand."

"You didn't need to do that, but thank you." She placed her beer on a small table, and he produced a small bundle, about the size of her hand, wrapped clumsily in a scrap of fabric.

"Dish towel wrapping paper. That's new," she said as she untied the twine which held it closed. Inside was a small and admittedly clumsy carving. She slid her fingers across the smooth planes of the wood. "Did you make this?"

"Yes, and I do apologize for its lack of artistic merit. But for reasons I cannot explain, it reminded me of you." During his long, lonely vigil in the cabin, he had found his eyes unable to focus on another word or cry another tear for all that was lost. So he had found a hunk of basswood among his kindling, and his hands had created this without a great deal of input from his mind. He was no artist, but it did look passably like a lioness rampant, with sleek lines and a ferocious, though sly, snarl.

"It's awesome," she said, with apparent feeling. "I love it."

"It's not much," he demurred, though he could not keep his smile at bay.

"You kidding? You made me something. I had to buy your Christmas present." She carefully set the lioness aside and reached under the tree. She selected a parcel wrapped in shiny silver paper emblazoned with snowflakes. The paper slipped oddly between his fingers as he prised it open. Inside was a book.

"Washington: A Life," he read aloud. The general was astride a white horse on the cover, looking distinctly older and more drawn than Crane remembered him. But the painting captured his magnetism, the manner that was at once imperious and soldierly. Unable to contain his excitement, Ichabod slid the book open, savoring the familiar scent of the paper. "This is quite remarkable."

"There are about a billion biographies, but Amazon said this was the best. I hope you like it." She was holding her lioness again, her nose almost pressed against its carved one.

Ichabod closed the book, a sudden wave of concern washing over him. "Before I read this—tell me, did Washington...have a Sally Hemings?"

She just laughed.

He spent the night, curled on her sofa in the faint glow of the Christmas lights. The night was as silent as the carol had suggested, and while the sofa was perhaps too short to make his sleep heavenly, Ichabod was glad to be where he belonged once more.


	12. Auld Acquaintance

The station hummed with purposeful energy. It wasn't busy now, but in a few short hours, this place would be nuts. But even with the few scurrying cops and the handful of shamefaced perps in handcuffs, Abbie couldn't escape the whispers and stares.

She was used to the attention, though the whispers had changed recently. They used to be, "Isn't that the girl with the crazy sister?" Now, they had morphed into, "Isn't that the cop with the crazy English dude as a partner? And did you hear her crazy sister is out of the nut house?"

Abbie dealt with the attention in the same way, no matter what they said: eyes straight ahead, don't-fuck-with-me walk. It had taken her a while to get the walk down, but it was critical. If you just avoided eye contact, they thought you had something to feel guilty about. But if you walked with your back straight and your steps long and steady, they knew better than to keep messing with you.

Of course, the effect was pretty much ruined with Crane trotting at her heels like a giant puppy. Even if he'd been a modern guy, he still would have attracted attention by being giant and English and insisting on making friends with everyone. Add in the Medieval Times getup and his babbling about-

"New Year's Eve sounds rather like fun," he said, making no attempt to keep his voice low and pretty much proving her point. "If we commemorated the date at all, we celebrated it as the Feast of the Circumcision, which always seemed like a very painful sort of holiday. But now, I'm told there is dancing, champagne, some sort of giant sphere being smashed in New York-"

"It's just dropped, not smashed," Abbie corrected. She dropped the pile of reports on her desk. "And did you really celebrate baby Jesus getting his tip nipped?"

"'Celebrate' may be a strong word, but yes." He shuddered. "Barbaric practice, with no scientific basis."

Abbie couldn't help it: she glanced down at his pants. "So you weren't..." She made a scissors with her fingers.

"Good Lord, no. Is it common practice now, even amongst Christians?"

Abbie just grinned and sank into her chair. She picked up the first report. Morales' handwriting was absolute chicken scratch; she wasn't sure if this lady was DUI or DOA. "But if you want to go actually celebrate New Year's, you don't gotta stay with me. Go down to the bar and ring in 2014 new millennium-style."

Since the woman in Morales' report had been booked into lockup and not the morgue, Abbie was gonna go with DUI. She made a note in the margin and reached for another file. The phones wouldn't really start to ring with reports of drunk people doing dumb things until closer to midnight, so it was the perfect time to get caught up the paperwork she'd been ignoring for weeks.

"I could take no pleasure in celebrating while I knew you toiled here. But you do not seem to long for the celebrations at all." He folded himself into Ramirez' empty chair opposite her, thumbing through a copy of Brave New World he must have found in the cabin.

"Not a fan of New Year's."

"But why? You are so fond of Christmas, and the themes are similar: renewal, new beginnings, hope and light in the darkest of times."

Maybe it was because she'd never gotten a new beginning. The calendar year changed, but she was still Abbie Mills, the kid from the foster system with the crazy sister. Just came with the territory of living in a small town your whole life. Quantico was supposed to be her personal new year, but, well, it hadn't happened. Her life had changed a lot since then. In some ways, it was way better; she had a mission now, and a best friend. But she'd also lost Corbin and was also responsible for the fate of the world, so life's full of trade offs.

But no one outside their little band of misfit toys knew about all those changes. To them, she was the same girl who'd stumbled out of the woods all those years ago. And she knew she shouldn't let it bother her, and most days it didn't. Except on New Year's.

Abbie didn't tell him all that. She didn't think he would get it; he'd tell her that of course she was so much more and everyone saw her for who she really was. He believed that. But for once, Crane was wrong. So she shrugged. "It's just another day. Some random guy decided hundreds of years ago that for some reason, January 1 is the day we all start over. But why not April 16 or July 4? Makes just as much sense."

"July the Fourth is quite taken, if you please," Crane said. "Though if you wish to consider it in that light, all holidays are artificial constructs created for the sake of convenience. That does not mean they are not still critical milestones of human life."

"You're getting way too deep for me. All I know is, it's not my favorite holiday. Mostly drunk people making promises they're never gonna keep." Seriously, Bob Joosten got picked up for public urination again? Third time this year. She initialed the report with a sigh.

"Ah, yes. New year's resolutions. I do rather like the idea of setting some worthy personal goal to achieve." He smacked the paperback book against his palm thoughtfully. "What sorts of things do people resolve to do?"

"Lose weight, mostly."

He snorted. "Certainly neither of us require such a resolution; running from demons is sufficient exertion to keep anyone lean."

She shrugged, and he fell quiet, propping his feet on Ramirez's desk. She sneaked a glance at him; he was just sitting there, staring into space, lightly ruffling the pages of his book. He did that sometimes, went someplace she couldn't follow. She didn't know if it was the past or the future or just somewhere deep inside his big old brain. He always came back, though, so she let him be and got busy on her paperwork.

This time, he was gone for a while. It was almost ten when he said, out of nowhere,"Perhaps my resolution shall be to learn to steer a car."

Well, she hadn't been expecting that one. "You wanna learn to drive? I thought you'd bust out that you wanted to-" To rescue Katrina, she just managed to avoid saying out loud. But he'd been kinda squirrely whenever she'd mentioned his wife lately, so she stayed out of that minefield. "-learn to speak ancient Egyptian or something," she salvaged.

"Nonsense, the keys to the ancient Egyptian language have been lost to us."

"They found them again." His eyes lit up, and he whipped his feet down from the desk, leaning toward her. "Found this rock that had translations in hieroglyphs and Greek and...something else. Anyway, you could learn it."

"How marvelous! I have so longed to know more of the pyramids," he said, toying with his ring. "But learning languages is a simple matter-"

"For you."

"-and while piloting a car would be more of a challenge, I am an imminently capable rider. If I can control several hundred pounds of horseflesh with a mind of its own, I see no reason I should not be able to master the..." He made a vague circular gesture in the air with one hand, reaching for an invisible gearshift with the other.

"Oh yeah, you'll be ready for the Indy 500 in no time."

Before Crane could ask her to explain the reference, the desk sergeant's voice crackled over her phone intercom. "Mills, just got a report of a 17 on Valley Street with property damage. Can you and the consultant handle it?"

"We're on it." She grabbed her coat. "Hit and run, Crane. I'm driving."

"Likely a wise decision."

It was a waste of a trip; someone had dented a telephone pole and probably fucked up their car pretty bad. She'd check with repair shops in the morning. After grabbing a few photographs and paint chips, they were headed back to the station.

As usual, Crane was messing with the radio, jumping from one station to the next. Spanish music blared one minute; then some preacher saying something about the end of the world (he didn't know the half of it). But Crane stopped when he hit on a familiar song.

"Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind?" A woman sang sadly. "Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and auld lang syne?"

"I know this. It was a poem, and the words...the words were similar, but different," Crane said. He listened, staring intently at the radio. When the new verse began, he sang over the lyrics, softly. "Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never thought upon? The flames of love extinguished, and fully past and gone. Is thy sweet heart now grown so cold, that loving breast of thine, that thou canst never once reflect on old lang syne?

The song ended, and Abbie punched the radio off. "Didn't think that song could get any more depressing, but here we are."

"I worry. I worry that I should miss her more than I do," he said, eyes still fixed on the radio. "All this talk of driving cars or learning Egyptian, it only distracts from the fact that I should be fighting to free her with every moment I breathe."

"You liked New Year's five minutes ago. Don't let that stupid old song get you down; everyone hates it anyway. I don't even know what auld lang syne means."

"It means-"

"Don't care, either." The steering wheel creaked under her hands. "Look, she knows you're trying, Crane. She wouldn't want you to make yourself crazy freeing her." Well, probably. Abbie didn't actually know Katrina that well. "How's this for a new year's resolution: we're gonna do our best. Our best to stay alive, save the world, free her, learn to drive. Whatever. As long as we don't give up, we're gonna be okay next year."

His smile was ghostly, but it was there. "I thought you did not care for resolutions."

"Don't. But maybe this year it'll be different."

"Perhaps." He sounded like maybe he believed it.

She didn't. This was going to be another year—another six, if the prophecy was right—trapped in this same dead-end town with more and more baggage piling up around her. If they were lucky, they'd survive. But they had to keep fighting. Even if she was trapped and he was dealing with some serious shit, they owed it to the world—and to each other—to try. If that meant she had to come up with some bullshit resolutions to keep him from getting depressed and locking himself up in the cabin again, then that's what she'd do.

"To the year of our Lord two thousand and fourteen," Crane said, hoisting an imaginary toast.

"And many more."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ichabod quotes from the 1711 poem "Old Long Syne" by James Watson, which Robert Burns adapted, in part, to create the version we know today. The lyrics quoted here are taken and modified slightly from Wikipedia


	13. Gunpowder

I never should have let her go out there alone, Ichabod excoriated himself. He immediately recognized the folly of his logic—no one let that woman do anything; she did as she willed. And besides, the lieutenant was eminently capable, clever, and both well-armed and well-dressed. But with temperatures quite so frigid, he could not but wish she were sitting safe and sound in her rooms.

The wind yowled against the eaves, and the cabin shuddered in the face of its ferocity. Ichabod seized the fire iron and stoked the flames, carefully shifting the wood until it burned just so. It was a ridiculous luxury; he was quite sufficiently warm to sustain life. Yet after his long, long winter in Valley Forge, he had grown to despise the cold. So tonight, at least, he would let the fire blaze and soak into his bones.

Yet he could not sit restively and enjoy the flames. Oh, he would sit now and again, pretending to read A People's History of the United States (engrossing yet baffling), but then he would leap to his feet, pace the room, rearrange the logs yet again. Mostly, however, he checked his telephone.

Before she had gone out, he had extracted a promise from her to contact him the instant she arrived home. In truth of fact, he had asked rather insistently to be allowed to accompany her on her shift, but she was firm. "I'm gonna need the room in the vehicle, Crane. Night like this, there might be fires, there're gonna be accidents, I might have to transport people to a warming center. Besides, you don't wanna be out in that."

As he reached for his telephone to ensure that he had not accidentally silenced the thing—again-there was a jolt at the door. In a flash, the fire iron was in his hand. The town had been quiet since they had put down a malodorous mountain troll the week before, but there were always more dangers awaiting them. He raised the poker high.

"Do not make me take my gloves off to unlock this stupid door, Crane," a familiar voice called over the wind.

He scrambled to open the elaborate series of locks and admitted the lieutenant. She seemed to have doubled in volume since last he saw her, so enrobed in coats and scarves was she. As soon as she slipped inside, he fastened the locks, replaced the fire iron, and turned his feet to the kitchen.

"Thanks. I think my eyes about froze shut out there," she huffed. "Sorry for barging in, but it was another fifteen minutes home and my heater was not living up to its damn name, and when I saw your light was still on..." She paused, cocking her head to the side. "Were you going to take me on with a fire poker?"

"Yes. Now go warm yourself."

"I gave you a gun."

"This was nearer to hand." The tea was still passably hot, and there was enough for two. He refilled the kettle, careful to leave the tap running a trickle as Miss Mills had instructed him, and carried the mugs to the fireside.

She had already disentangled herself from most of her winter vestments, odd things made of fabrics which had not existed in his time. When she realized he had offered her tea and not coffee, she wrinkled her nose.

"None of that, now. Tea is far more warming and comforting than coffee." He pressed the cup into her hands.

"It just tastes like water with grass clippings in it," she grumbled. "At least you can Irish coffee up a little."

Ichabod was gratified to see that some cultural linchpins remained constant. "You have never had gunpowder, then?"

"A what now?"

He smiled and picked up his bottle of Barbadian Best Amber. He added several generous splashes to her cup, though he himself abstained. "Gunpowder. Any soldier's best friend." She sniffed the cup warily, then sipped. The puckery face that resulted made him laugh. "It will warm you through all the same."

"There's a reason this thing never caught on outside the military. Yikes." Still, she kept her hands wrapped around the steaming cup, continuing to sneak droughts, each accompanied by that same puckery face in miniature. "And thanks, for this."

He waved the thanks away. It was, in the most literal sense, the very least he could do for her. He started to reclaim his seat and his own tea when he saw she was still wearing her big black boots. "You must remove those at once."

"Let the rest of me thaw out first." She closed her eyes. "It was a long night. People are dumb in the cold."

"Miss Mills, a damp, cold foot is nothing to trifle with." He scrunched his own toes—or what was left of them, rather—within his boots. He rarely missed the first joint of the two largest toes on his right foot, and his balance had recovered after a short adjustment. Compared to the losses his comrades at Valley Forge suffered, it was nothing. He was merely fortunate he had located a camp surgeon before the frostbite had spread.

Despite his admonition, she made no move to remove her shoes. She just sighed quietly. "One minute. Just give me one minute. Then I'll take care of it."

He felt the right ass. Here he had sat, snug and warm, while she had risked her life for strangers. It was one thing to fight to protect others; it was quite enough to suffer biting cold for long hours without the thrill of battle to sustain you. Yet she did it all without complaint. All she wanted was to sit by the fire, and he badgered her.

So, for once, he did the wisest thing of all. He closed his mouth and gave her her silence. But he knelt at her feet and began unlacing one heavy boot.

That got her eyes open. "The hell you doin'?"

He had intended to be flip with her, to inform her that if she would not perform the task herself, he would do it for her. But looking up at her, her cheeks chapped raw from the wind, those words died away. "Let me do this one small, insignificant thing for you. Please."

She gave him the oddest look, as if he had begun speaking in Middle English once more. "You do a lot. You know that, right?"

"You needn't reassure me; this isn't about that." Crane knew that he had his role in all of this, and most days he did an admirable enough job of it. But in addition to her duties as a witness and warrior, she had to play nursemaid to him, to say nothing of all she had done for Miss Jenny. He could never repay her, but perhaps he could at least give her a moment's peace.

After a length of silence which Ichabod found quite uncomfortable, she nodded.

Removing her shoes was oddly intimate, though he could not say why. Perhaps it was his kneeling position. Perhaps it was that she hadn't closed her eyes again, and watched him with puzzlement. Or perhaps it was that the only pair of bare feet he'd been much acquainted with had been Katrina's. Crane's cheeks colored at the thought.

"Tell me, Lieutenant, what made the good people of Westchester County so very 'dumb' this night?" He braced himself, pulling one boot off. Then the other. He lay them by the fire to dry.

"Some were dumb, some just sad. Guy who ran out of beer and tried to walk three miles to the liquor store in -10 degree weather? Dumb. Zero sympathy for him. But we had a couple carbon monoxide runs tonight. That's a kind of gas. It comes from fire, basically. Anyway, one mom with three little kids didn't have enough money to fix their furnace, so she set up a charcoal grill in their living room to keep warm."

He had heard of the illness before. "Did they live?"

"Yeah, but now they've got all kinds of medical bills they'll never be able to pay. I'll probably see them again at some point."

"But for tonight, they're safe." He peeled layers of socks away, startled at how thin they were, yet how dry her foot was. A modern miracle, indeed.

"I guess. And that tickles." She squirmed as he removed the last sock. "You didn't have to do that"

He rose. "You needn't have given that woman extra money from your wallet, either."

She smiled wryly, but did not dispute his words. "Yeah, well. Thanks. For that, and for the gunpowder."

"Shall we reload?" He extended the bottle once more.

She fell asleep before the fire sometime later, wrapped in a flannel blanket which had belonged to the sheriff. He considered moving her to the bed chamber, but decided she would be warmer here, by the fire. He covered her in another blanket nd kept vigil all night, ensuring the flames never burned low.


	14. Eighteen

Abbie fenced like she was playing baseball.

Crane had tried to teach her the classy, fancy way he used a sword (or, in their case, a stick with a hilt), but it didn't work for her. The long sword, almost as tall as she was, slowed her down, made it harder to maneuver. She wound up getting tangled and couldn't get any leverage. So after their second lesson, she'd hacked off a good four inches of her sword with Crane's ax. Rolling his eyes, he'd said it looked like a dirk and she looked like a common seaman.

She didn't care. Now she could get low, minimizing her strike zone. Now she could choke up on the sword to give herself more control and power. Now she could duck and dart and harry him.

Now she liked fencing.

"Keep your guard high. Turn to the side, make a smaller target," Crane coached, but his voice was strained. Abbie grinned. She had him on the run. Instead of the big, broad motions he used, Abbie poked him and thwaped him. None of them were kill shots, but if they'd been using steel, he'd've been bleeding pretty badly by now. She prodded him in the ribs; she smacked him across the back. Every now and then he'd land a blow, but she hardly felt them.

"Leftenant, I believe that is enough for the day," he panted after she'd sent him crashing to one knee with a well-timed strike to the back of the thigh.

"I'm just getting' warmed up. C'mon." She bounced on the balls of her feet like a boxer.

Crane cast her a sidelong glance, but brushed the dirt from his pants and saluted her again. She returned the gesture just to humor him, then barreled in once again. Crack, sword on sword. Thwack, hip. Thwack, elbow. "Leftenant," he started, but she ignored him. She was in the zone. Jab, ribs. Every movement, every sound of sword on flesh, it all made her feel alive. Crack, swords. "If you please, Miss-" Smack, belly-

"Yield!" Crane coughed. He dropped his sword and doubled over, clutching his stomach. "Good God, Mills, I yield to you. Are you trying to do Moloch's work for him?"

"Oh come on, don't be mad 'cause I was winning." She swished her arms through the air, trying to stay warm and limber for when they started again. They would start again soon, right?

"I am not angry, but I am severely bruised. Whatever has gotten into you today?" He walked gingerly to a fallen log. Abbie started to give another taunting reply, but she saw him wince as he lowered himself to sit.

"Crane? Shit." She let the sword drop from her hand, moving quickly to his side. "I didn't think I was really hurting you." It had just been a game, like the dozens of other times they'd fenced or hit the shooting range or played Texas Hold 'Em. "What do you need? I'll go get some ice." She spun toward the cabin.

"That is not necessary. The only thing I require from you is an explanation."

Abbie didn't turn back toward him. She raised a hand to her hair, fidgeting with the loose strands from her ponytail. "An explanation for what?"

"Why you fought like a woman poss-" He left out a soft breath of laughter. "A poor choice of words indeed. Why you fought with such verve and vigor. Have I done something to dismay you?"

"I didn't realize I was fighting with verve or vigor. Not even really sure what verve is."

"Admittedly, I am not the finest swordsman in the land, and you are a quick and able student. But usually, you make at least a moderate attempt to blunt your blows. But not today."

She felt him looking at her, eyes burning a goddamn hole in her neck. "I'm sorry, okay? It's been kind of a crazy week, even by our standards. I wasn't thinking as much as I should've. Won't happen again."

"You discovered some unpleasant truths yesterday. It would be logical if it took some time to come to terms with all of them." In some ways, knowing that he was looking at her was more uncomfortable than actually facing him and those clear blue eyes. So she turned, arms crossed hard over her chest.

Nope, she was wrong. It was way worse when he was looking at her, like she was a puzzle to be figured out. But mixed in there with the curiosity was something warm and gentle. It wasn't pity—fuck pity—but it was...understanding?

Abbie cracked open. "Eighteen. That's how many times she was arrested. Eighteen separate times." She'd looked it up late last night, scrolling through the mountain of files on MILLS, JENNIFER in disbelief. Twenty-seven charges total. Everything from shoplifting to trespassing to grand theft auto. Even assault. "She did all of that—hurt other people—just to protect me. If Corbin hadn't known and been looking out for her, she'd be in prison for God knows how long."

"And she did it gladly, because she loves you," Crane said.

"How could she love me? I don't know that I would have crossed the road to piss on her if she was on fire at that point, but she went to jail for me. Over and over."

"Piss on her if she were—I shall have to remember that eloquent turn of phrase," he said with obvious amusement. She sideyed him. He cleared his throat. "You and Jenny both wanted the same thing: to keep the other safe. You merely had different ways of achieving that end."

"Yeah, and mine was lying." It had seemed safer. After all, no one believed kids, even when they were telling the truth. No one had believed them when they said foster parents hit them, or when they were only fed every couple days. Those weren't crazy, out-there stories, so why would any grownups believe them about demons? Their best chance had been to stay together, and their best chance of doing that had been to lie.

But Jenny insisted on the truth, and they lost each other.

Abbie sank onto the log beside him. "She should've been your other witness. Not me. She's always had the guts to stand up for what she believed in." She studied the ground below her feet, the trampled yellow grass speckled with frost.

"Now are simply indulging in self-pity," he said, but not in a mean way. "When God appeared as the burning bush, He told Moses to refer to the Lord as eyeh asher eyeh. Most scholars translate this from the Hebrew as 'I am who I am,' but another possible translation is, 'I am becoming who I am becoming.'" He looked at her expectantly, as if that was supposed to mean something.

Abbie shook her head. "Okay. So what?"

"I have always vastly preferred the second translation, this idea that God Himself is in a constant state of flux and change." Crane touched her shoulder, hesitantly. When she didn't jerk away, he wrapped one long arm around her shoulders. "Perhaps in order for you to become who you are becoming, you needed Miss Jenny to be your shield for a time. And now, you are the witness God, humanity, and your sister need you to be."

Abbie let herself lean against him. He was warm and solid and smelled like sweat and wood smoke, and just for a second, she was able to share her guilt with her partner. After all, Ichabod Crane knew a thing or two about letting down family when they needed you. Even if he was wrong to feel guilty, he got it. And even for that second of shared sympathy, her load was so much lighter. She wondered if his was, too.

Then she straightened, and he withdrew his arm. They scooted apart. "I'm sorry for beating the crap outta you."

"Now that is a vast overstatement of my injuries," Crane argued. "My crap is still firmly within me. And now that I have caught my second wind, I believe I shall best you this time." He reached for his sword, then paused, glancing at her uncertainly. "That is, if you're feeling better?"

"I am. You give good pep talk." She stood. "You gonna teach me that balustrade move you were telling me about?"

"I can only assume from your deeply mangled French that you are referring to the balestra."

"Yeah, that one. Give me two secs, okay?" She dug into her pocket for her cell phone and scrolled through her contacts.

"beers tonight at sullivan's?" Abbie hesitated. "drinks on me," she added, then pressed send. It wasn't enough; it wasn't ever gonna be enough to repay her sister. But hey, it was a start.


	15. Sinner's Prayer

The windows were transparent like glass, but they were as warm and dense as plastic. Abbie tapped every one, searching for hollow spots or weak points. When they all returned the same thick thud, she took to kicking them. First she kicked them high, like her police academy instructors had taught her. When that didn't work, she kicked backward like a mule.

The effect was the same.

The door was as fake as the windows, but it got its time with Abbie's foot, too. She even threw herself against the walls, as if she might somehow knock the house onto its side and send them spilling out onto the ground, just like her real dollhouse had.

Through it all, the memory girls just stared at her.

"You could at least help me," she panted. "With three of us putting our weight into it, we might be able to do it."

"This is your home now," her creepy Mini-Me repeated.

"No. It's not. Home is Sleepy Hollow, with Jenny and Crane." She started sorting through the clumsy dollhouse plates and cups. There had to be something that could help her.

"So you're going to leave us, too? Just like Mom and Dad did?" her memory asked, her voice as flat and unaffected as ever.

Abbie shouldn't have been surprised to hear those words; after all, she'd thought them to herself on a thousand sleepless nights. And this girl was her, or at least a part of her. But it still stung like a motherfucker.

Especially now that she'd been left alone. Again. Just like Andy said she would.

"I don't know that you can exist in the real world," Abbie said. She lowered the plastic loaf of bread in her hand and set it back on the counter. "You're just a memory."

"Jenny" shrugged. "But we feel alive. We've been here for thirteen years. Just us, where we're always safe."

At least the real Jenny was safe, Abbie thought with grim satisfaction. She was probably still in the library, going through old tapes. Sure, Jenny had said she'd come after her once the sun went down, but Abbie had made sure her sister didn't know the words to open the gates of purgatory. Abbie hadn't been able to protect her sister all those years ago; at least she would now.

She couldn't say the same of Crane. He was probably dead now, at Henry's—no, at the second horseman's hand. He finally got to be with Katrina, and now...

Slowly, she sagged into one of the hard chairs, awkward grooves etched into the plastic for the dolls. Abbie's feet didn't touch the floor.

But Crane was smart. Scary smart. Maybe he'd put the pieces together faster than she had, maybe he had seen through Henry and, together with Katrina, they'd been able to bind him or kill him. Maybe they were still out there, fighting the good fight. Together.

Abbie wished maybe she'd said more of the stuff to Crane that she wanted to say. There was a lot that she felt, but she didn't have the words for any of it. Maybe the fist bump got her message across, or maybe the hug did. But still, she should have told him that she had never had a friend like him. That every time she saw him, no matter what dumbass thing he was doing, she couldn't help but smile. She should have told him that he was right, that the skinny jeans looked dumb on him and that the white shirt made his eyes seem more blue. She should have told him that maybe...

It didn't matter. Crane and his wife didn't need her. They had Ichabod's brain and Katrina's magic. And after all, they knew all along that one witness would die. Though, she wasn't sure if she was technically dead or just...in between metaphysical states. Either way, she was out of commission.

She wondered if she'd always be here in the dollhouse, or if Moloch would come for her and do whatever demons did. She was all outta magic amulets now. Or maybe he wouldn't come, would just leave her to rot here like he'd let those precious memories rot for thirteen years.

Thirteen motherfucking years stuck staring at four pastel walls, reliving the same memory of four white trees. Except for her, it would be an eternity of wondering if the world had survived. If he had survived.

"No."

Two heads swiveled toward her. "No, what?" her other self asked.

Abbie hadn't realized she'd even spoken out loud. But she shook her head and waved the girls off. She couldn't stand to be around them. They were her failure, when she hadn't been strong enough to see and remember. This time, she had to be strong enough.

She stomped up the stairs, the house shaking beneath her feet. The word no rang in her head with every step.

No, she hadn't been left here. She had chosen to be here. The choice between herself and the world had been a no-brainer.

No, Crane hadn't betrayed her. She wanted to fight Moloch so she could be free (plus the world, that was important too); Crane had just been along for the ride. And he'd sworn he'd come back for her. She believed he would if he could, but she didn't have time to wait.

No, Crane hadn't delivered her soul to Moloch. Just like she'd told him back when he'd been pulling his drama queen bit at the cabin, her soul wasn't anybody's to take. Moloch might have her trapped, but her soul was still hers, thank you very much.

And no, Crane wasn't dead because there was still a lot of Tribulating to do yet. The God she believed in wasn't perfect, but He also wasn't gonna pick such flimsy witnesses.

Daniel went into the lion's den and made some new furry friends. When King Nebuchadnezzar threw those three boys into the furnace, God protected them with His own body. No way God was going to let a dollhouse stop His witness.

Abbie found an empty bedroom. She wished she could shut the door, but there wasn't one. She fell to her knees.

Katrina had said that to escape purgatory, she needed forgiveness.

"Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner," she whispered, hands clasped under her chin. "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner." She repeated the prayer again and again, one for each sin. She'd stolen, coveted, lied, fornicated, worshiped alcohol and needles as false idols, killed several men in the line of duty, and taken the Lord's name in vain a whole bunch. She tried to remember every bad thing she'd ever done and, with all her heart, begged God to forgive her.

Maybe she was there for minutes or hours or days; she had no clue. But God was conspicuously silent.

Okay. Okay. What if it wasn't God who had to forgive her? Who had she wronged more than anyone? Jenny. Abbie squeezed her eyes shut tighter and clenched her praying hands into fists.

"Jenny, if you can hear me, I want you to know that I'm sorry. I shouldn't have lied. I shouldn't have let you go. But I was scared. I was the weak one. I always wanted to be strong, like you, but I crumpled. I wasn't the sister you needed me to be. I fucked up and ruined your whole life, basically." Abbie paused, sucking in a deep breath. She had to mean it. And she did. "If, wherever you are, you can find it in your heart to forgive me, I promise we'll have that lock-picking rematch. And that I'll finally become the sister you deserve."

How were you supposed to know if you were forgiven? Did an angel get its wings? Would her soul magically get lighter or some shit? (Whoops. " Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner," she mumbled again.)

What if it wasn't Jenny who was supposed to forgive her? What if it was Martiza, that girl she'd called a fat pig in third grade? What if it was Luke for standing him up for their date? She guessed she'd have time to go through every person she'd ever wronged in her life, but-

There was a soft rustling at the doorway. There she stood, in her pleated skirt. And looking into her own dark eyes, eyes that were innocent yet had already seen too much, Abbie knew.

"What's the last thing you remember before you came here?" Abbie asked the girl.

"I saw the thing come out of the ground. I saw him wake up. Then everything got dark and we were here. I like it here better. We're safe here."

"If you hadn't come here, if you'd had to go explain to people what you saw, what do you think you would have done?"

Her younger self came and sat on the floor beside her, arranging the plaid skirt around her knees. "What do you mean? I would've told them. The truth is always the best. That's what Mom said, anyway."

Abbie smiled. "She was right. But that hasn't always been easy for me. Sometimes I've been scared of the truth. I thought it would hurt me."

"Did it?"

"Yeah. It did. Telling the truth and, even scarier, believing the truth, is hard. But lying was even worse. It hurt me, it hurt Jenny. If I'd been brave, maybe I could have saved a lot of people. Maybe even Corbin."

"What happened to Corbin?"

Abbie stared at the ground. More than anything, she wanted him and his apple pie to be real. "He died."

"Did you kill him?"

"No, but-"

"Did you ask somebody to kill him?" Little Abbie asked her.

"Of course not, but sometimes-"

"Did you mean to hurt Jenny?"

"You're kinda bossy for a little kid."

"I'm just right. And you know it. Lying was wrong, but you're sorry for it. That's the only thing you can do anything about. Everything that happened to Jenny or to your friend, that's about them, not you."

They looked at each other, the woman and the memory, and they smiled. The smiles weren't the same; one was tempered by age and grief, the other was shiny and new. Tears rolled down her cheeks, but they were warm, sweet tears; fond goodbye tears for the person she had been, the well-intentioned girl who'd tried to save herself and her sister from the truth.

"Eyeh asher eyeh," Abbie said.

"What's that mean?"

Abbie started to answer, but the house around them shattered into a trillion pieces, plastic turning into cold silvered glass. She watched as her own memory exploded into mirror shards. Demonic roaring filled her ears, and something scratched at her leg. Heat and pain pinballed through every nerve until she was sure that she, too, was going to fly apart like the mirror, just splinter in the face of all that rage and anger, but then-

Then she was sprawled on the forest floor, bathed in a pool of sunshine. As much as she wanted to take the victory, to listen to the birds and just be happy the world was not dead, she couldn't. She wasn't truly home yet.

She had to find Crane.


	16. Breath

My son lives. 

Once the initial panic of his situation had passed and he managed to stop shouting and slow his breathing, that was the thought that remained. Jeremy, blood of his blood and flesh of his flesh, was alive. Oh, yes, he knew there were far more pressing matters to consider, such as Mills' current incarceration, his own rapidly diminishing store of air, his kidnapped wife, or the small matter that said son was now an apocalyptic rider. Yet despite the desperation of his current circumstance, a small portion of his heart sang.

His son had suffered, above ground and below. The poor lad—now quite his elder—had been beaten and twisted into a being of revenge, one bent upon conquering the world which had so abused him. But he lived. And while there was breath in his son's body, hope remained.

The more pressing question was how much breath remained in his body. Besides the great crushing press of earth above him which trickled into his eyes and mouth through the slatted roof of his coffin, the constricting vines sought to squeeze the air from his lungs.

Yet still his son lived. And if Ichabod could survive this, perhaps it wasn't too late to begin again. Old wounds could be mended, new relationships formed. He liked Henry, the man his son had become. He was sad, certainly, with eyes even older than his physical appearance. But he took pleasure in puzzles and riddles, in tending his plants. Somehow, his son had found joy even in the world which had hurt him so. The way Henry--Jeremy--had flinched from Crane's own touch, knowing full well who he was...it was painful to contemplate. But they had smiled together, too. And laughed.

Ichabod knew they could find common ground. He knew that, given time, he could appeal to his son's logos, pathos, and ethos, convincing him to shun villainy and relinquish his ties to Moloch. They could, somehow, create a family. 

First, he must live. 

Recalling the sight of the coffin which had filled him with such terror, he estimated it to be roughly eighty-five inches in length, thirty inches in width, and twenty-four inches in height. That should provide him some nine hundred liters of air, which sounded like a prodigious amount until one considered the area displaced by his own body, as well as the encircling vines. Perhaps the plant life respirated some small measure of oxygen, but at best, his life would be measured in hours.

The vines made it quite impossible for him to kick or strike at the lid of the coffin. Even had he been able to move freely, what would happen should he manage to break through the barrier above him? Earth would fall, crushing him and hastening his suffocation.

No, his best and only solution was to kick out the bottom of the coffin, slither down beneath the vines, and tunnel up at an angle of some twenty degrees or so. At such a time, he could locate Miss Jenny and the two of them could formulate a plan for saving her sister and his wife.

A small, foolish part of him dared hope for rescue. But the only person he had absolute faith in, the only person he knew would always come for him, was a world away. He had promised he would return for her. He would not renege. 

His feet barely touched the bottom of the coffin. He attempted to wriggle upward, so that he might gain additional velocity, but the vines held him soundly at every juncture: around his shoulders, binding his arms to his side like a corpse (an unfortunate metaphor he regretted as soon as he thought it), cutting painfully into his waist, twining about his legs. He gave several mighty attempts, but moved not an inch. 

Ichabod found himself panting. The realization only served to heighten his fear. Every labored, gasping breath meant a few precious moments had been shaved from his life. Yet if he made no attempt to escape, there truly was no hope for him. In turn, that meant no hope for her.

Hers, rather. Katrina and Miss Mills. That was what he had meant, of course.

There was no other option, then. He must fight. If that hastened his death, at least it was a death given in service to his family, his world, and his God.

Ichabod could not say how long he spent throwing himself against every side of the coffin. He coughed and gagged as earth shook into his face; the vines seemed to tighten around him until he was certain one had drawn blood. Yet still he battered his body, struggling to control his breath with every movement.

After a time, however, his body would no longer follow his commands. His limbs were as lead and white spots spattered across his vision, the only light in the smothering darkness. Then, Ichabod knew he was dying.

It was not that he feared death; after all, he had perished before, and certainly he had conclusive proof there was life beyond this one. Rather, he regretted the things left undone, the people who would die in the wake of his own demise.

If only he had had a short time with his son, perhaps this ending could have been rewritten. Though his relationship with his father had ended in accusations of treason and dishonor, Crane would never have had the moral fortitude to make those self-same decisions without his father's example and strength. Even a few years, a few precious days with his son, and perhaps the boy could have had the forbearance he needed to stand firm against life's cruelties. 

If only he had learned the secret of Katrina's otherworldly powers sooner, perhaps he could have acted as a wiser counsel to her, could have helped her avoid running afoul of her coven and spending her years in tortured solitude. Or perhaps his failings with his wife stretched back further; if only he had the strength to walk away from her all those years ago, to say he would not accept a heart that was held in such love and esteem by his best friend, perhaps then so many troubles and travails would have been averted. 

If only he had not allowed Miss Mills—oh, the time for formality was long past; if only he had not allowed Abbie—to remain in the world between worlds, she would have found a way out of this. She could have reasoned with Jeremy, or found some last-minute, terribly clever yet simple way to save them all. At the very least, she would have made him laugh one last time, and he would not have died alone.

His eyes were so heavy. He could simply fall asleep, curled in the womb of the earth. Yes, he would rest his eyes for a moment. Perhaps he could gather his strength and make one last attempt to make his way back to the world above. He would rest, only for a...

He dozed in the twilight of his life. Dimly, he was aware of a growing pain in his chest. Somewhere there was a voice, a familiar one, calling his name. A rat scrabbled and scritched above, but it was all so very far away. He drifted further and further into sleep.

He dreamed he lay on a flat, featureless plain, and that they sky cracked open like an egg, revealing more stars than seemed possible. He dreamed of the smell of grass, of wind on his cheeks, of drinking his fill of cool, clear water. 

It was a lovely dream, if lonely. He did not wish to awaken. 

Something pulled painfully hard against his chest before the tension broke and he found himself feeling quite lighter. It almost seemed worth the bother to awaken and see what had caused such a shift. Almost...

“I do not accept this. I do not accept this. He is not dead. Do you fucking hear me, Crane? You are not goddamn dead.”

His tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth, but somehow he managed to prise it free and form intelligible speech. “Am I meant to be dead?” he murmured, still unable to open his eyes, or to quite place the voice spouting vulgarities at him.

There was a choked laugh, and he descended for a time back into the darkness. On the very edges of his hearing, he noted more cracking, more scrabbling. Then hands came to rest on either side of his face, a child's hands, perhaps, small and caked in dirt--

With an effort, he opened his eyes. There, limned by moonlight, was Abbie. She crouched on the end of the coffin, which still held his entombed lower extremities below several feet of earth. His chest and head had been dug free, the slats of the coffin torn raggedly away. A small knife and several vines lay by her side; the cut ends of the vegetation wept blood.

“You came for me,” Ichabod whispered. His throat felt as though he had swallowed fire; his lungs felt as though they had accepted the flame. 

She brushed a strand of filthy, matted hair from his face, and he observed that her fingers were bloody, the nails torn away. She must have dug him free with her bare hands. “Yeah, well, we had an accord,” she said with a tremulous smile. Her teeth were white against the layer of filth which coated her like a second skin.

“Our roles were meant to be reversed.” He looked away. “I am sorry I did not fulfill my--” 

“If you finish that sentence, I'm gonna hit you.” she said sharply. “Doesn't matter who saved who.”

She was right, as she so often was. It was only his wounded pride speaking, and they had no time or need for such things. He struggled to sit upright, but the world spun dangerously. He lay back, chest laboring with short, shallow pants before he realized rationing his air was no longer necessary. He breathed deep.

While there is breath, there is hope, he thought faintly.

“Give it a minute,” she wisely advised. “Did Henry do this to you?”

Ichabod wondered how she knew of Henry's duplicity, but he was not yet prepared to tell the tale. For the moment, he merely wished to revel in the miraculous fact that they were alive and together again. “Later,” he promised. “But how...?”

“I got outta purgatory—later on that one, too—and I had a vision, like back in the haunted house. I saw vines, and I saw you.” She shuddered at the memory. “I think Grace is looking out for us. Anyway, when the vision was over, I saw—in real life—the new patch of dirt. So I started digging.”

Of course. Grace Dixon, the woman who had seen his son safely into life, and who had done all she could to protect him, was trying to undo Jeremy's wrongs even in death. Bless that woman. It was no surprise such a great woman gave rise to a descendant such as Abbie. 

Mustering all his strength, Ichabod managed to push himself into a sitting position. More than anything, he wished to put his arms about her, but he lacked the strength. Instead, he allowed himself to fall forward, burying his head against her shoulder; for once, she was taller than he. With trembling arms, Abbie embraced him. If a tear or two wet her jacket, she was kind enough not to draw attention to his weakness.

“One of these days, Crane,” she said, her arms tightening, “we're both gonna learn that there is always another way.”


	17. Grave Dirt

Abbie knew it was bad news when the voicemail addressed her as  _Miss Mills._

_"Miss Mills, this is Officer Harris calling from the Tarrytown Police Department."_ She could have recited the rest of the message by heart; God knew she'd given it enough times.

Abbie broke every fucking traffic law in the book. She careened around corners, she ignored stop signs, she took speed limit signs as a challenge. And still, she wasn't going fast enough.

" _I'm afraid there's been an accident."_

Crane braced against the dashboard with one hand, the other clutching the door handle for dear life. "Is this manner of driving prudent?" he asked, his voice still creaky and dusty.

" _Your sister Jennifer Mills was involved in a car accident. She's been taken to Phelps Memorial for treatment."_

"Nope." She veered around a pickup making a left turn, earning her a flurry of honks and flipped birds. She didn't care.

" _I'm afraid her condition is listed as critical."_

"Leftenant, neither of us will be of any use to her if we too are engaged in an accident," Crane sensibly reminded her.

Abbie knew that. And she knew the risks of driving like a maniac. But she did not care. Not even one tiny bit. "Faster we get to her, the faster we can get to Katrina," she grunted. If he said anything after that, it was lost as she leaned on the horn with all her weight.

" _I'm very sorry to break the news to you. I wish you and your family all the best."_

They sprinted into the hospital, trailing grave dirt in their wake. Abbie flashed her badge as she checked in with the nurse; that always got faster results. But for now, there was nothing even the most sympathetic nurse in the world could do. Jenny was in surgery to prevent brain swelling. They were afraid of internal bleeding. Prognosis: too soon to say. Sit down, have a cup of watery coffee, and try not to cry on the other sad sacks in the waiting room.

Abbie stumbled away from the nurse's station. Was God playing some kind of joke on her? After Abbie had gotten on her  _knees_ and sworn that she would never leave Jenny again, that she'd be the better sister, this was what He decided to give her? Hell, Jenny was probably already lying broken on the pavement when she'd made that fucking prayer. God had known, and He'd let her swear anyway.

Fuck Him, then, and the ark he rode in on.

Quietly, Crane came to stand beside her. "Abbie," he said. But she couldn't look at him. Whenever she looked at him, Abbie always found a way to believe that everything was going to be okay. That hope made her weak, and she had to be strong enough for the whole world today.

She ground the tears from her eyes.

"You should go clean yourself up. I've gotta make some calls, see what I can find out about the accident."

"Abbie," he repeated, voice low and so gentle she just couldn't take it.

"We're going to get to Katrina!" she exploded. "Jesus! Give me five goddamn minutes to see if my sister is going to live and then we'll go call in the cavalry, okay? She's been in mortal peril for two hundred years; she can wait a little longer."

Crane stepped back. "I understand your words are made in anger and grief. I know you did not intend to strike at me, though the blow did find its mark. I shall leave you to your investigations." From the corner of her eye, she could see him bow stiffly to her. He walked away, shoulders stooped.

Later, Abbie was going to feel really bad about that. But right now, she didn't have the time or the emotional bandwidth. She started making calls, and the results were what she'd expected: not an accident, unless a clip of AK-47 rounds had accidentally found their way into the SUV.

Nothing was an accident. Not anymore.

A doctor in blue scrubs approached her, nose buried in a clipboard. For her, this was just another night at work, another head trauma victim. Her world wasn't crashing down. "Miss Mills?" Once this was over, Abbie was gonna tell Crane never to call her that again.

"I'm Abbie Mills," she confirmed. "What's the news?"

"My name is Dr. Gupta. Your sister is out of surgery and in stable condition. We performed a craniectomy to reduce the intracranial pressure, and the initial results are good. Still, to reduce the chance of blood clotting, we've put her into a medically induced coma as a precaution."

The deluge of words was overwhelming, but Abbie was used to getting these kinds of reports about patients. She just had to act like Jenny was any other patient. "Any idea how long you're going to keep her under?"

The doctor spread her hands helplessly. "At least a few days. With any luck the scans will come back clear and we can let her wake up on her own."

"Can I see her?"

Dr. Gupta side-eyed Abbie's torn, muddy clothes. "I can't let you into the ICU like that. But let me see if I can't find you some scrubs. Then, five minutes. No more."

Abbie nodded gratefully. Ten minutes later, she had washed the dirt off as best she could and was wearing scrubs so long she had to roll them up to her knees. They even made her wear a hairnet. But none of that mattered.

The room itself was alive with beeping and hissing. Enthroned in the big white hospital bed, Jenny looked deceptively okay. Pale, yes. A cut on her forehead, sure. But Abbie couldn't see the worst of the trauma. It was hiding, waiting. At the worst possible moment, it might swell and smash Jenny's brain against her skull like a grape. Or it might simply give up the ghost and bleed and bleed and bleed.

Jenny looked beautiful lying there, peaceful and still for once in her life. She hadn't seen her sister like this since they were little girls, back when Abbie used to read  _The Chronicles of Narnia_ out loud until Jenny fell asleep, dreaming of Turkish delight and mice who carried swords.

Where was Aslan when you needed him?

Abbie had spent a lot of time watching people at hospital bedsides. People cried, mostly. Clutched the hand of whatever unlucky bastard was in the bed. Made promises, told stories, even sang songs. But Abbie couldn't bring herself to do any of those things. She just watched her sister. Didn't even think about anything; her mind was too full for thoughts.

When the nurse ran her out, Crane was waiting for her. He was cleaner, but with the dirt washed away, he looked every day of his two hundred years. Dark circles were chiseled under his eyes; deep lines gouged into his forehead.

"Thought maybe you'd left," Abbie said.

He shook his head once, like a lion. "Don't be absurd. How is she?"

She wanted to look over her shoulder at Jenny, to get one last glimpse of her face through the tiny rectangular window, but she didn't. "Not good."

"Were you able to uncover anything about the nature of her accident?"

"Yeah. I was. Jenny was too smart. They found a sign with her: The Parrish of St. Henry. She found the church, understood the sign, and Headless tried to take her out with an automatic. Only question is why she isn't dead."

"Eager to claim his prize, no doubt," Crane said tightly.

Oh. Right. Predictably, Abbie now felt guilty about yelling at him. "What I said about Katrina-"

"Was a sound deduction of my current priorities based on my past behavior. There is no need to discuss it further. I did, after all, drag you to the very mouth of hell in an attempt to free her." Now it was his turn to avoid her eye.

Abbie should've said something encouraging. "We're both on the same side," maybe, or "shut up, don't be a dumbass, I stayed on my own." But she didn't say those things. She just stared at the linoleum floor wished she could start this whole day over.

"Is Miss Jenny...sleeping?" Crane asked after a few minutes of silence.

"That's the nice way of putting it."

"Ah." He nodded. "Of course you will wish to stay by your sister's side during her time of need, but I do hope you will understand that I cannot. I shall have my telephone at the ready, and keep you constantly apprised of my progress-"

Abbie looked up at him sharply. "Who said anything about staying here?"

He gestured feebly to the ICU. "It would only be natural and proper for you to stay here. No man could think ill of you for that decision."

"Maybe no man, but Jenny would kick my ass if she found out I was emptying her bedpan instead of saving the world."

A slow, familiar smile spread across Crane's face. And there it was, that old creeping feeling: together, they could do this. She wasn't sure she could trust that look, now that she knew it was just the two of them, no Jenny, no Irving, no God on their side.

But they were gonna try.


	18. Liberty

Only the chimneys remained. Five of them, from the massive kitchen hearth large enough to roast a whole ox, to the delicate fireplace which had once been fronted by hand-painted tiles from the Orient. Long ago, they had filled the great house with light and warmth; now they thrust into the sky like accusing fingers.

The lieutenant slammed her car door. "You sure they're gonna be here?"

"Can I say with absolute certainty that my best friend, who has become  _Death_ , has brought my wife and his former fiancée back to the ruins of the estate which would have been their nuptial home?" he asked, each word dripping acid. "No. I cannot. He may very well have dragged her to the mouth of Hades itself. But this is the most probable locale we can reach without some sort of demonic sacrifice."

"Ask a stupid question," she muttered. "Here." She thrust a flashlight into his hands. While they could not use the larger sunlight-emulating devices they had initially used to trap the horseman, these portable versions would be their most efficacious weapon. So armed, they advanced into the ruins.

Ichabod rebuilt the home in his mind. Sturdy red brick. Plastered columns, to make the viewer think of the grandness of the democracies of antiquity. Perfectly manicured gardens stretching into thriving apple orchards, and beyond, fields of golden wheat.

Now, dead grass wilted; were it summer, it would have reached his knees. He picked his way amongst shattered bottles and the ashy remains of campfires. Here was the study where he and Brom had sat late into the night, debating Plato and Thomas Paine and whether a Grecian democracy or a Roman republic would better suit the colonies. There was the ballroom where he had drunk too many glasses of punch as he had jealously watched Brom twirl Katrina.

The very ground was steeped in memories.

Ichabod wished, not for the first time, that he had had the moral fortitude to walk away when Katrina had offered him her heart. Accepting that great gift had been the most profoundly selfish moment of his life. Certainly, she should not have been forced to marry Brom against her will, but he should have been strong enough consider his friend's feelings above his own, to help him gather the shattered pieces of his love and move forward with dignity, to find a woman who returned his love, as Brom deserved. Instead, he had put his own needs first, and all had suffered.

"Yo Crane. I think I found something," Mills called, her voice echoing oddly. Crane did not see her at first, but soon located her crouching in the great kitchen fireplace. "Abraham was a Mason too, right?"

"Yes. My brother." He knelt beside her.

"Thought so. These bricks here are just a  _little_ different in color than the others. See?" She indicated three bricks, slightly more brown than the red that surrounded them. Together, they formed the points of an isosceles triangle that encompassed most of the fireplace back. "I tried pushing on them, like you did down in Washington's tomb, but no dice. Any Mason secrets you wanna share?"

"This is a golden triangle," he said with mounting excitement. "Which means it is based on an equiangular spiral. Beautiful."

"Uh, yeah. Great. Does it mean anything?"

Ichabod was too busy calculating to respond. He used a finger to trace the spiral from the tip of the triangle, curling inward until he reached the origin, at a place where two bricks met. Deliberately, he pressed it.

Thank God for the lieutenant's quick reflexes; she was able to leap away before she fell into the trap door which rumbled open beneath her feet. A simple ladder of iron rungs led down into a foreboding blackness.

"Well spotted, Lieutenant." He brushed past her, preparing to descend. She seized his sleeve and did not let go.

"You sure you're okay to go down there?"

"Irrelevant. I  _am_ going down there, and if you make an attempt to stop me-"

"I'm not going to stop you; you made it clear a long time that's pointless. I just want you to take a second and prepare yourself. They might not be down there. Something could have already happened to Katrina. Whatever we find, we've got to be ready and focused. Too much emotion will get us dead," she said gravely.

She was correct, of course. He had always fancied himself a detached stoic, able to move through a world of facts and intellect without becoming bound up in complications of the heart and soul. But emotion was his Achilles heel, and had been responsible for nearly every bad thing (and, admittedly, every good one) that had ever befallen him. His emotion had caused Brom to become this hideous demon; it had trapped Abbie in purgatory.

He could not fail her again.

"I will endeavor to remain fixed upon our end goal. You have my word," he said. She tugged his sleeve once more, then finally released him. He cleared his throat. "This is not your battle, Miss Mills. You do not have to accompany me."

Mills gave him a  _look,_  put her foot on the first rung, and swung into the blackness.

Ichabod paused for but a moment as he gazed down. The last thing he wanted to do was to enter the earth again; the very thought made icy fire spread from his head through his veins. But he followed, keeping his eyes always trained upward on the ever-retreating sky.

They climbed. And climbed. Just when Ichabod thought surely they had reached the bottom, they continued climbing. He wondered if they were not, in truth, entering hell itself. But if they were, it was significantly deficient in fire and brimstone and much more well-endowed with cobwebs and earthworms clinging to the sides of the shaft.

They climbed so deep that the tiny patch of gray sky above them disappeared. No matter how Crane moved his head and strained, it remained elusive.

He could not breathe. He could not move. He could only clutch the rung with white knuckles and hang, helplessly.

His mind swelled with numbers. The aperture through which they descended was five feet square, which meant it allowed approximately one hundred and forty liters of air to enter on a regular basis. Unless it were slammed shut, trapping both of them. Then they would be forced to share their oxygen. He would be forced to listen to Abbie's rattling breaths, feel that constriction in his chest once more. No, no, no, no. Perhaps he could simply let go, plummeting to a merciful death. That would give her more time, a few more precious breaths-

"Why'd you stop?" she called up to him. "Everything okay?"

Every second he tarried, trapped in his fear, was another moment for the Horseman to brutalize Katrina. The thought did him no kindnesses—rather than forcing him to control himself, it made him gasp more painfully. In his weakness, he was killing Katrina, too.

Words formed on his lips, but his lungs would not supply him with the necessary air to give them voice. A low moan escaped.

"Crane, I think we're almost there. Can you just hang on another minute?"

"The sky," he managed.

"What about it?"

"I can't see it." Every nerve in his body was on fire, every hair on his arms stood painfully on end. He wanted to bolt back up the ladder and throw himself on the dead grass and let the sky embrace him.

"Well, of course not, we are in a hole in the— _oh_!" she exclaimed. "Shit. This is not like before. You're okay. I know it doesn't feel that way, but you're fine."

"Abbie, I can't breathe," he whispered pitifully. He hated the sound of his voice as much as he hated the darkness that threatened to crush him.

"You can. You're flashing back to what it was like in the—before. Earlier. And that's natural, it happens to a lot of soldiers like you. It's nothing to be ashamed of." Her voice was low, urgent. Her speaking stole precious air, yet with every word she spoke, he seemed to breathe more easily. "But this is not the same. We're together, for one, and I won't let anything happen to you. And there's plenty of air; they're hard to see, but up when it was lighter, there were little ventilation holes in the walls. Makes sense there'd be some down here too, right?"

Again, she was correct. And he knew that, intellectually. But his body was trying to tell him that he was dying all over again. So he latched onto her words like a shipwrecked man to a piece of flotsam.

Abbie was here. She would not let anything happen to him. Meditating upon those words, he managed to slow his heartbeat from a gallop to a canter.

"Can you keep going just a little more? I think I see a torch or something down below; light, anyway."

"I can," he said, hoping it was true.

"Okay. You take it as slow as you want. One rung at a time."

One foot down. One hand down. The other foot down. The other hand down. Repeat. Foot. Hand. Foot. Hand. Below, he heard Miss Mills' feet strike the ground. Firelight edged his vision, and soon he dropped beside her, hoping she would not notice the trembling in his knees. She moved toward him, arms spread, but he made a tiny wave of his hand and she retreated without question. He appreciated the comfort, but he could not bear to be touched in this moment. Not even by her. So instead, he focused on their surroundings.

Once they had ducked out of the shaft, they found themselves in a graceful rotunda with a domed ceiling, lit by those flickering torches which had illuminated the final stages of their climb. Two corridors led away. Though they were still deep underground, the sense of space did wonders for Crane's state of mind. He was able to pretend they were merely in a windowless room, and he calmed.

"You okay?" she asked, sounding nonchalant, though Crane knew the depths of her concern.

"Better," he said.

"We're gonna talk about this when we're done."

"When we are done, yes. Do you hear that?"

She lifted her head. "Singing."

It was faint, but Crane knew both the song and the voice. "The tree their own hands had to Liberty rear'd," Katrina sang, high and sweet. "They lived to behold growing strong and revered." Quakers had frowned upon singing, but in that as in so many other things, Katrina had defied her people. She had even written her own scathing version of "God Save the King."

Crane whirled, preparing to dash toward the sound of her voice, but Abbie blocked his path. "We need to go slow. It could be a trap. Turn your flashlight on." He grudgingly did so, as she retrieved her own flashlight and firearm. "Carefully. I will cover you."

It took an effort, but Crane crept down the hallway. "With transport they cried, 'Now our wishes we gain.'" Her voice broke. "For our children shall gather the fruits of our pain."

The hallway through which they walked was surprisingly well-appointed, with damask wallpaper and parquet floors. Sconces held sweet-smelling beeswax candles.

Katrina came into view, and Crane stopped short. She was sitting in Brom's drawing room. Every detail was precisely the same, from the silken settle to the heavy brocade curtains which could not possibly cover windows. Katrina herself was gowned in a sumptuous green dress, with lace and ruffles and so many frills it nearly swallowed her whole. An elaborate choker made of blood-red rubies covered her from chin to collarbone.

"Then join hand in hand, brave Americans all, by uniting we stand, by dividing we fall. In so righteous a cause let us hope to succeed, for heaven approves of each generous deed," she sang. Her eyes were fixed at a point on the floor.

Crane waited only long enough to peer around the door frame, to ensure Brom wasn't lurking in the corners of the room, before flying to her side. "Katrina!" Behind him, Mills swept into the room, her gun and flashlight crossed before her, fastidiously searching for hidden threats.

He expected Katrina to throw her arms around him; to swoon into his shoulder and ask him how he had survived. He expected her to be overjoyed, for them to run toward freedom together. But she did not touch him. She merely pressed a hand to her necklace.

"My love. You should go," she said softly.

"Yes, we shall all go. Come." He reached for her hand, but she recoiled. "What is it? What has he done to you?" Black and terrible thoughts threatened to overwhelm him with rage.

"It is too late for me," she said faintly. "I cannot go with you."

"Bullshit. Uh, sorry," Abbie said, as if concerned the curse had wounded Katrina's delicate ears. "We can walk right out the door. Well, and then some climbing. But if we're gonna go, we gotta go  _now_."

"Katrina, there is no time to waste. Please, before he returns." Crane cupped her cheek in his hand. He pulled away at once. "You are as cold as ice. Come." He began to remove his coat, but at the same time, Katrina was reaching up to unclasp her necklace.

The jewels fell away. Beneath was a bright, scarlet slash, deep and terrible, that extended from just behind each ear. The gash puckered and hissed softly as she spoke.

"It is over, my love. Now I truly belong to Death."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Katrina sings "The Liberty Song," lyrics by John Dickinson.


	19. Dearly Beloved

Abbie stared dumbly at the hole in Katrina's neck, furiously trying to make sense of what she was seeing. This had  _not_ been on the worst case scenario list she had constructed on their way down here. Sure, she'd imagined that Katrina could have been dead, but  _dead_ dead, not walking dead.

Apparently she needed a bigger imagination.

Her trance was broken as Crane crashed to his knees like he'd been shot. Abbie took a step forward, reflexively, but Katrina already had his face in her hands, speaking softly but urgently. Her throat glistened.

Right. This was between the two of them. Not her business. The Horseman surely wasn't here, right? If he was, Katrina would hopefully be a little more concerned about their presence. So Abbie edged quietly out of the room, flashlight and firearm at the ready.

She swept room after room, each one creepier than the last. A massive, echo-y ballroom lined with tarnished mirrors. A library full of books that reeked of mold. She refused to step into the bedroom, with its massive ebony bed hung with thick black curtains.

As she moved through the awful underground mansion, she had one question in mind:  _What do we do now?_ Her first instinct was one of simple self-preservation: Grab Crane and get the hell out. There was nothing they could do now for Katrina, and they could buy themselves time to regroup and create a plan of attack.

But even if Crane would agree to it—he wouldn't-Abbie realized she couldn't leave Katrina here. The woman had already spent two centuries being tortured with memories of her lost child; Abbie would have to be a monster to sentence her to an eternity as the sex slave of a headless demon.

So now not only did they have to kill the Horseman, they had to figure out a way to...Abbie didn't know what. Bring Katrina back to life? Nothing was impossible, but it seemed more likely they'd have to find a way to give Katrina a humane, true death. And that responsibility would have to fall on her shoulders.

The last room, at the very end of the stone corridor, was locked. But not for long. An image of Jenny, lying in her hospital bed, flickered through her mind. Abbie shoved it away and opened the door.

She stepped into an arsenal. Every inch of the room was covered in weaponry, everything from bayonets to AK-47s, from swords to dynamite. Well. At least one thing was going right today. She helped herself to an MP7—perfect for close quarters—and several clips, two Glocks, and a couple grenades. Never knew when those would come in handy.

Abbie hoped that was enough alone time for Crane and Katrina; scratch that, she knew it wasn't. But it was all she could give them. She re-locked the door and slowly walked back to the sitting room.

Crane was still on his knees, gently tying his handkerchief around Katrina's ruined neck. Big improvement over the necklace, though her second smile still ghosted through. "Katrina, I pledge to you, we shall find a way to return you to life. You have my oath."

"I release you from your vow," Katrina said at once. "You cannot promise me that which is impossible, no matter how much we may both wish you could." Abbie looked at the woman with respect. She knew the score, and she wasn't going to take comfort in a lie.

Abbie cleared her throat. "Guys, I'm sorry to interrupt, but we've got to get going." Crane jumped, startled by her reappearance. He turned to look at her, his eyes red with tears and rage for the Horseman.

"Yes. You should both go, before he returns," Katrina said. "He spoke to me, in my mind. He said he was going to fetch a vicar, so that we may be wed, as we were always meant to be."

"We will go nowhere without you. And no man of God would wed one who is already married," Crane said, his attention back on Katrina.

"Demon probably isn't going to use a man of God," Abbie pointed out. She stepped toward the couple. "Katrina, why can't you come with us?"

Katrina stared down at her puffy skirts. "It is no accident that the Horseman chose this method." Her hand fluttered to her neck before flitting away. "He performed dark blood magic. My lifeblood, once spilled, bound me to the earth. Once I leave the confines of the underground he has created, my soul shall depart my body."

Crane's face began to collapse, so Abbie hurried on before he could fully process the statement. Abbie had to keep pushing him through this emotional avalanche; there just wasn't time to let him  _feel_  right now. If they survived this, she would stand by him and let him grieve as long as he needed to.

But that was a pretty big "if."

"If Katrina can't go above ground, then our first priority has to be defeating the Horseman," Abbie said.

"You must go without me. Save yourselves, and in turn, save the world."

"No," Crane and Abbie said in unison. Crane's was a passionate plea; Abbie's was flat and firm. Katrina was too valuable to toss her aside so easily. She was, after all, a witch. Or had been; she wasn't sure how that worked postmortem. But even if she was magicless, she could still be bait.

"How do we kill Death?" Abbie asked.

"We know sunlight is a powerful weapon, but Abraham will not fall for the same ploy twice," Crane said.

"Maybe we're thinking of this wrong. Maybe instead of figuring out what can hurt him, we need to figure out what keeps him...alive's the wrong word. Animated, I guess? If we can figure that out, we can back into a solution," Abbie said.

Abbie watched the exact moment Crane back-burnered his concern for Katrina and latched onto the problem. Like his son, he loved puzzles. "Originally, the power was imbued in his head, from the ritual the Hessians performed. The shaving of his head, the symbol they placed there."

"Taking his head off didn't slow him down any."

"The symbol was also branded upon his hand. Perhaps as a fail-safe measure? If he lost his head, as it were, the mark on his hand would ensure his continued survival."

"It can't be that easy," Abbie said with a sigh. She wished they could just cut his hand off, but their luck just didn't work like that. "No way."

"Indeed not. But the symbol must be the key."

"Can we use it to trap him like Ancitif?"

"Too temporary a solution."

Katrina's eyes darted from one to the other as they spoke. "Is it always like this between you?"

"Like what?" Abbie asked.

"It is as if you speak your own language, one only decipherable by the two of you; it is as if you know what the other will say before they have spoken," Katrina said.

Abbie shrugged and jammed her hands into her pockets. "We're Witnesses. And partners. That's just how it works."

"I see," Katrina said. Abbie wanted to dip her head in embarrassment, even though she knew she hadn't done anything wrong, but she met her gaze evenly. Katrina smiled. "If I followed that correctly, I believe you may have the right idea." She rose, skirts rustling like a sigh. She swished to a small writing desk and took up a quill pen and a piece of thick paper.

"Most magical symbols can be inverted to create the opposite effect. For instance," she dipped her pen and drew a triangle. "This symbol means 'man.'" She flipped the paper upside-down, so the widest part of the triangle faced up. "And this, 'woman.' Two sides of the same coin. However, I fear our enemies have chosen wisely." She drew the Horseman's symbol, the wheel slashed through with six arrows. "No matter how one turns or reflects this symbol, it remains the same. Therefore, we cannot use it to reverse the spell cast upon him."

"Back to the drawing board," Abbie sighed. "Can we lure him out into the sun, maybe?

"No," Crane said suddenly. He jumped up and grabbed the pen from Katrina. "In geometric terms, a line and a circle are  _themselves_ inverse to one another. A circle is a line turned in upon itself, while a line is a circle torn asunder." He scribbled furiously. He drew six circles, one inside the other, slashed through with a single line. He looked down at Abbie, wearing that little smirk he got whenever he was particularly pleased with himself. She couldn't help but smile back, just a little.

"Will it work from a magic standpoint?" Abbie asked.

"I...I believe it should," Katrina said. She squinted down at the paper; her hand trembled. But after a long, long few minutes, she nodded, her lips thin and tight. She laced her fingers through Ichabod's; he pressed her hand to his lips. "If we can somehow brand this upon his flesh, it should counteract his mark and end his reanimation. But how will we draw near enough to do so?"

There was a moment of silence as they considered the general unkillability of the Horseman, but then Abbie nodded grimly. "Ballroom's the perfect place for a wedding, don't you think?"

* * *

"If you insist on this marriage—against my protestations—it will be in a place of my choosing," Katrina proclaimed as she led the way into the ballroom. The Horseman had dressed her in the most ridiculous poofy wedding gown, lace on top of lace on top of lace, and a necklace thick with diamonds.

The "vicar" the Horseman had gone to get turned out to be fully skeletonized, wearing tattered black robes and an upside-down cross. As he moved, his bones sounded like dice rattling around in a game of Yahtzee. Abbie stifled a hysterical giggle with her hand. Soon, she would either be dead or she could crack up. But not yet.

She and Crane both stood behind draperies on the one wall that didn't hold mirrors. The curtains pooled on the ground, so they were safely out of sight. Abbie clutched her UV flashlight in one hand, a grenade in the other; Crane had his own flashlight and the MP7. None of them really knew if this would work. But they all knew it was their only chance.

"Dearly beloved," the dead vicar rasped with a voice like falling autumn leaves. "We are gathered here today to celebrate the long overdue nuptials of Abraham van Brunt and Katrina von Tassel."

"My name is Mrs _._ Katrina  _Crane_ , and I'll thank you to remember that."

Abbie grinned. In another life, she and Katrina could have been buddies, she thought. She got why Crane was so crazy about her. She could see them being a great married couple, raising a great kid.

Life should have been so different for them.

Crane nudged her shoulder with his. Their eyes met for a moment, and all of the unspoken, un _thought_ but fully felt things flowed between them once again, just in case they didn't make it out of this.

"Please join hands," the vicar instructed. Rustling. Abbie pulled the pin of the grenade with her teeth. "Abraham van Brunt. Do you take this woman-"

Abbie and Crane jumped from behind the curtain, flashlights blazing. With all her might, Abbie hurled the grenade down the length of the room. It sailed over the head of the fucked-up little bridal party, as it was supposed to; it exploded against the far wall, leaving a smoking, blackened crater. Katrina shrieked and clutched onto the Horseman in fear. Huge and scary as ever, he began to clomp toward them.

Abbie shined her flashlight on the wall of mirrors to her right; Crane took the left. The thin streams were suddenly multiplied a thousand times until the whole room blazed with sunlight.

The vicar immediately dissolved into a pile of dust and bone. The Horseman staggered drunkenly, struggling to keep his footing. But Katrina was quick, and she was ready. She kept her firm hold on him while she pulled a small knife out of the breast of her dress.

He jerked away, but with the sunlight blazing through the room, he was no stronger than any other man. The clip Crane emptied into him slowed him even more. That gave Katrina just enough time to carve six circles into his hand. The Horseman found enough strength for a backhand that sent Katrina skidding across the floor. But quick as thought, she was back on her feet and diving for the Horseman. With a ferocious motion, she tore the final line into his skin.

Everything went still. The horseman stared (well, bent toward) his hand. The shaking started; the stone floors bucked under their feet, sending them sprawling. The mirrors swayed dangerously, and Abbie was now pretty sure her clever plan was going to leave them crushed and bleeding under a heap of broken glass.

But then it all stopped, and the Horseman was gone. No smoke, no dust, no nothing. All that remained was a tattered red coat.

Abbie wanted a body. She wanted to  _know,_ once and for all, that it was over. She wanted to fucking light his corpse on fire for what he'd done to Jenny, what he'd done to the Cranes. But even without that verification, Abbie knew in her gut he was gone.

One down. Three to go.

Crane recovered first. He jumped to his feet, grinning from ear to ear. "My love, you've done it! You defeated Death itself." He ran to Katrina and snatched her up by the waist, spinning her in a circle. Katrina tried to smile with him, but all she could manage was a grimace. When Crane set her down again, her legs crumpled. Blood surged from under her diamond necklace, dyeing her wedding dress bright red. "Katrina? Oh, God in heaven,  _no._ "

"I am so sorry, my Ichabod," Katrina whispered. She'd known. She'd known all along. Katrina wasn't just bound to the earth—she was bound to the Horseman. And with him gone...

Over Crane's shoulder, the two women locked eyes. Abbie nodded, just once. Katrina raised a hand—a blessing, a thanks, Abbie didn't know.

Abbie swallowed hard. Then she walked from the ballroom so they could say their goodbyes.


	20. Shoulder to Shoulder

Ichabod could not bear to consign his wife to a grave. She would not be a prisoner, trapped beneath crushing layers of earth and forever doomed to rest in the realm of Death.

He carried her too-light, too-heavy body from the Horseman's lair. The lieutenant found an alternate method of egress via a gently sloping ramp that disgorged them into what had been the magazine and which was now an abandoned storefront. Somehow, they were able to smuggle Katrina to the cabin without being seen. Drops of blood pattered like rain in his wake.

" _I beg your forgiveness," she had murmured as life oozed from her. As if any of the half-lies and half-truths mattered now. As if the past had any consequence. All he could see was a future without her._

" _I forgive you everything."_

He lay her body on the kitchen table. Layer by layer, he removed the Horseman's ghastly wedding dress. He sponged away the blood that speckled her pale skin; he found suture and needle and stitched up the gaping maw of her throat. His fingers brushed softly over the vile bruise that purpled her cheek, where the Horseman had struck her. He brushed her hair until it fell like a wave of silk.

" _You must forgive Jeremy. You must find him, and show him how deeply he is loved. You must_ teach him _to love."_

_He rested her forehead against hers, the tips of their noses just touching. "I swear it."_

The lieutenant presented him with a simple black shift. Had she left to procure it? He could not recall, and it did not matter. He dressed Katrina, her cold limbs already stiff and clumsy. The black was harsh, which only heightened her delicate beauty.

" _I shall wait for you. One day, perhaps not so very long from now, we will be together again," he had choked, blinded by tears. She squeezed his hand with all her fading strength._

" _Don't you dare, Ichabod Crane."_

Loathe as he was to leave her, they locked the cabin and ventured into the wood. The lieutenant gathered dry fallen branches from the frozen earth; he severed pine boughs.

" _You must not spend your days longing for what was, or mourning for what might have been."_

Ichabod brought down saplings; the lieutenant followed behind him, stripping them of branches.

" _Love shall be your burden and your shield. It will bring you pain, but without it, you are lost."_

" _Without_ you,  _I am lost"_

Tears clouded his vision like a shroud. Twilight fell. They worked in silence.

_Her lips moved, but whatever dark magic enabled her to speak had fled. Her eyes were round as Charon's coin, and she was afraid._

He lay the vacant husk which had once been his wife on a bed of fragrant pine. He kissed her, then pressed his forehead against hers, their noses touching for the last time. She smelled alive, of lily of the valley and of honey.

_He held her to his breast._ _Again and again, he proclaimed his love for her. He reminded her of dalliances in green meadows; of how he loved the way she sang to babies as she brought them into this world just as she sang to men as she eased them out of it; of the way she used to tease him for his foppishly curled hair. Anything to drive the fear from her eyes._

There were no flowers to be found in the bleak landscape, so he curled his beloved's fingers around a bouquet of holly. They built her pyre high, a chimney to usher her into the Beyond. The moon rose.

_Katrina had drawn her final breath hours before, when the Horseman had done his work. But now, he watched as her soul fled, as the thing in his arms became a mere vessel. His help meet and his love was gone._

Ichabod sprayed a foul-smelling liquid on the pyre, at the lieutenant's urging. She herself stood at the edge of the clearing, speaking softly into her telephone. "This is badge number 28171." She paused, listening. "Thanks, Francie. Appreciate that. She's a fighter, all right. Anyway, there's a controlled burn taking place out off Route 9, right by Corbin's place. Just in case anybody calls it in, I've got it. Okay. Uh huh. You too."

_As he had done to so many soldiers before her, Ichabod closed Katrina's eyes for the last time._

"Did you want to say a few words?" the lieutenant asked.

A few? Thousands flew to his lips, stories and paeans and sonnets, all clamoring to be spoken, to be carried into the night sky with her earthly remains. But Ichabod chose only a precious few. "Her name was Katrina Anke Crane. She gave her life in service to her fellow man and to her God. She was my wife, and she was—and always will be—loved."

He dipped his torch.

_He wept._

They sat shoulder to shoulder on the ground, their backsides freezing and their faces roasting. Katrina was hidden from them with a veil of flame. His mind was, for once, blank as he watched the sparks drift into the sky and form new constellations. There was too much to think of, too many lonely tomorrows ahead and too many beautiful yesterdays to recall. So he simply listened to the sound of the lieutenant's breathing and lost himself in the flames.

The fire grew smaller and smaller, until it became embers which glowed like rubies. Then, one by one, even those blinked out.

All was dark and still.

"I'm sorry," the lieutenant said.

"Thank you."

More silence. In this unending winter, there were no crickets to sing Katrina to sleep, no birds to sing her requiem.

"Do you want to go inside?" the lieutenant asked hesitantly. "I'll do what needs doing here. You get some rest. Been days since you slept."

"As it has for you." He stood, bones crackling in the cold. He took a step toward the ashes.

She was at his side. "Crane, you don't want to see her like that."

"It isn't her." Still, he stopped. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust...and yet. "Let it be for now. The wind will take what it wants; we shall manage the rest later." Sullen heat still rose from the earth. He turned toward the cabin.

Again, she was at his side. "Good. You go get some rest. You...will you be okay if I leave you? Just for a-"

"Why would you leave me?" he asked sharply.

She stopped, taken aback. "I can get someone to stay with you, that's no problem, but-"

"I am going inside to find new garments." His new arraignment was ruined; it, too, would need to be burned, alongside the Horseman's wedding dress and coat. "Then we shall both go to hospital and wait for Miss Jenny to awaken."

She canted her head to the side, examining him as if he were a bit of stubborn evidence, whose meaning had yet to reveal itself. "You don't have to do that. You deserve some time to process this."

"And you deserve to have a friend at your side."

Soon, they sat shoulder to shoulder in the hospital, smoke and melancholy clinging to them like a second skin.


	21. The Lie

"The doc says your PT is going really well."

"It's going slower than shit," Jenny said. But her words were clear now; so were her eyes. The sisters walked slowly down the hallway of the rehab facility, Abbie staying just close enough to catch Jenny if she fell, but just far away enough that Jenny wouldn't realize that's what she was doing.

"I just want outta here, Abs." She tried to sound cool and nonchalant, but Jenny couldn't hide her fear. This place was too much like the looney bin. It reminded her of what she had been, what everyone thought she was. In here, she was weak and powerless. Out there, she was a warrior.

Abbie patted her shoulder. She wondered if the gesture felt as awkward for Jenny as it did for her. "Let me talk to the therapist again. See what I can do. But we'll get you out real soon."

* * *

At a red light, Abbie glanced down at her phone. Sighing, she texted back. "crane, no. that is not a genius idea. do not put ur socks in the microwave. PLZ."

* * *

"Have you seen them?" Irving's voice was wavy through the prison phone. On the other side of the plexiglass, he looked shrunken, his orange jumpsuit too big, his eyes too wide.

"No, they're back in the city. But I talked to Cynthia. She sounded okay, all things considered. And she said Macey's doing good. Misses you, but..."

"Yeah, but she's used to that," Irving finished.

In the next stall over, a woman cried quietly. Abbie shifted in her seat. "Anybody bothering you in here, Captain? I know one of the COs, I could-"

"C'mon, Mills. A cop accused of killing a priest? I'm in deep, dark protective custody. I don't see anybody. 'cept you," he said with the smallest smile. "Safe but lonely."

"Just hang in there. We're doing everything we can to get you out." Abbie bit back a yawn. This was not the time or the place. "I'm gonna put some money in your commissary account before I leave. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Just keep her safe. That's all that matters."

His chains jangled as they led him away.

* * *

Abbie could smell it before the driver rolled down her window. "You been drinkin' tonight, ma'am?"

The woman cringed away from the beam of Abbie's flashlight. "I had one beer. But that was hours ago."

Maybe it was one beer, but it must've been a bathtub full of tequila. "I'm gonna need you to step out of the car, ma'am."

"I got rights! I'm not getting out of this goddamn car, you fucking cunt!"

Abbie rubbed her eyes. "Ma'am, I will not ask you again. Please exit your vehicle."

* * *

Abbie collapsed onto her couch, a congealed taco in one hand, Irving's case file in the other. There had to be something she was missing, some piece of evidence she could use to clear his name, while not revealing the existence of demons.

Piece of cake.

She wolfed down the taco and was debating between a beer or another pot of coffee when someone knocked on the door crisply and precisely. Three knocks.

There was only one person it could be, but she checked the peephole anyway. To most people, he'd look fine, standing at his usual parade rest with his hands behind his back. And he had been holding up way better than she thought he would. But there was the slightest stoop to his shoulders, a guardedness to his eyes that had never been there before.

She undid the bolt and the chain and let him in. "Crane, it is two-thirty in the morning."

He strode in, sniffing the air. His nose wrinkled. "And yet here you sit, fully dressed and hard at work."

"I was on duty until midnight," she pointed out. "You doing okay?" Coffee. If she was going to tackle Crane's problems, she was going to need coffee.

"Quite well, thank you," he said with a little jerk of a bow. "But I did not venture here in the middle of the night to discuss my own concerns. For once."

Abbie raised her eyebrows as she reached for the can of Folgers. "Uh, 'kay. Then what exactly are we discussing at two-thirty in the morning?"

"You."

She had to laugh at that. "Me. There's no need to talk about me. Everything's fine in Abbie Land." It was everyone else she had to worry about. All the time. Was Crane going to crack up. Was Jenny going to break down. Was Irving going to be freed. Was the world going to be dragged to hell. Was Bob Joosten ever going to stop getting arrested for public urination. Those were the questions that churned and burned inside of her constantly.

There was just no room to worry about herself.

"Oh, is it, then?" he sneered. "Tell me, when did you arise this morning in the mythical realm of  _Abbie Land?_ "

"Early."

"And when did you retire the night previous?"

"Late. What's with the twenty questions?"

His haughty mask slipped for just an instant, giving way to confusion. "But I only asked two."

Abbie mustered a smile as she measured out coffee. Crane was throwing off her plans. She had hoped to study Irving's case for a few hours, then catch up on other paperwork. Then an early morning run, and then-

Crane wrapped long fingers around her wrist. His touch was light, but it was enough to stop her from dumping the coffee grounds into the filter.

"There  _is_  something wrong, isn't there?" she asked. Shit. She should have known. It was her job to know, to see past the "I'm fine" and to see that no, there was no way Crane could be fine. But she'd been so focused on everything else that she'd taken him at his word, just this once.

"I fear there may be." His eyes darted across her face in a search grid: up to down, left to right, down to up, right to left. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I am concerned for your well-being."

"I told you-"

"'Everything is fine in Abbie Land,'" he mimicked. "And yet you do not sleep. You scarcely eat, and what you do consume may not actually be a foodstuff as I understand the term." He flung a hand toward the taco wrapper on her coffee table. "You move from one crisis to the next without ceasing."

She jerked her hand away from him. Unthinkingly, she wiped her wrist on her jeans. "Yeah, well, somebody's gotta put out all these fires. And I don't mind it. I don't want you to think that I do. But someone has to stay on top of this shit or it all just falls apart."

"Then what becomes of us, your wards, when  _you_ fall apart?" he asked gently. Too gently. Too goddamn motherfucking cocksucking gently.

"That's not going to happen." So she didn't sleep. She got by on snatched cat naps and Red Bull. It was better than closing her eyes. Better than seeing Crane lying so, so still in a coffin; better than seeing blood spill from Katrina's perfect throat; better than seeing Jenny pale and broken in a hospital bed. "I am fine. Everything is fine."

A staccato metallic beat filled the air. Crane's eyes dropped from her face to her hand, which trembled around the coffee spoon. Its handle vibrated against the counter top like a rattlesnake. "So I see," he said.

Deliberately, Abbie set the spoon down. She rubbed her nose, trying to scrub out the scent of coffee. "I  _am_  fine. Just busy. But I like busy. Busy is good. Means I don't have time to think."

"The night Katrina was murdered," Crane said, pulling no punches, "you told me that I, 'deserved time to process.' Why do you not deserve the same?"

"We're not having this conversation," Abbie said flatly.

"In the days since our ordeals, you have forced me to have conversations I did not wish to have. To examine my fears, to grieve and fully understand the magnitude of my loss." Abbie had sat up nights reading books on self-help and the psychology of loss, just so she could offer him decent advice. They gave her the words she didn't have. And it had seemed to help. But that was different. That was  _him._

But fucking Crane couldn't see the difference, wouldn't leave her be. "Why," he asked, "will you not permit me to help you, as you so helped me?"

Abbie shook her head once, hard. Then shook it again. Then Crane was guiding her to the couch, and she was letting him. She shouldn't, but she did. They sat. "What do you fear will occur if cease your feverish whirlwind of activity?" he asked.

"That I won't be able to start again. That I'll just...freeze up." That's what she did best, after all. That's what she'd done after that day in the woods. She'd dug in her heels and stayed in exactly the same place for thirteen years: afraid and immobile.

He did not touch her, which was good; she probably would have come up swinging if he had. But he rested his hand just beside hers on the couch, their pinky fingers almost touching. "Then, you were alone. Now, you are surrounded by those who care for you most deeply. We will not allow you to remain entombed in ice."

"But that's the  _problem!_ " Abbie jumped to her feet, arms folded across her chest so hard it hurt her boobs. "Now I have something to lose. You and Jenny and Irving and even fucking Henry who's trying to end the damn world! I still don't want to lose him." She huffed a deep breath. "Jeremy. Sorry."

"Henry suits him better," Crane said, almost to himself. Then his eyes locked on hers, too blue and too sharp. "It is true that our deaths could come at any moment. Even if we were not engaged in an epic battle for the fate of humanity, we could be felled by illness, or by accident. So yes, it is possible you may lose those you love." His voice hitched, but he kept going. "Or you may continue to work yourself like a madwoman, taking on all of our problems as your own and pushing us away. Then, far more slowly but just as surely, you will lose us, piece by piece. Until you are, again, frozen and alone."

She looked at him for a long, long moment. Then she let out a flattened laugh. "What a dick thing to say, Crane. You need to work on your bedside manner."

He smiled, the smile Abbie loved and hated, the one that lied and said that everything would be all right. "I must work to better myself, then. Will you permit me to practice on you?"

"No. No talking." He shrank back, wounded, but she sat down beside him and lay her head against his shoulder. He stilled. For now, she chose to believe the lie of his smile. "Just stay a while? 'til I fall asleep?" She felt like a fucking cliché asking, like every bad romcom come to life. But right now, she needed the cliché more than anything.

Besides, Crane hadn't seen any romcoms.

Soft as a feather, his hand brushed against her hair. "Of course."

She thought that she would fall asleep right away, that the exhaustion of her body would take over as soon as she closed her eyes. But it didn't. Crane's presence didn't chase away the ghosts and the what-ifs. She was still afraid. But the soft rise and fall of his shoulder, the comforting scratchiness of his coat, they reminded her what was real.

She must have slept. Shadows swirled through her dreams, menacing but indistinct and distant. When she awoke, she and Crane were in the same position. Her neck cracked nastily as she straightened.

The second she stirred, Crane was on his feet. "Thank heavens you've awakened. Forgive me, but I have urgent need of the privacy closet." He wavered, knees pressing inward. "But-are you quite all right? Was your sleep restful?"

She laughed, full and long. Not out of sarcasm, not because she couldn't believe what shit hand life had dealt her. She laughed because the sight of tall, aristocratic Crane standing knock-kneed like a little boy was  _funny_. And it felt good. "For God's sake, go pee!"

He did. And as Abbie rummaged in the fridge for breakfast, she thought that maybe, just maybe, his smile wasn't such a lie after all.


	22. Tiny Explosions

"Our time would best be spent in other ways. Hunting for my son, for instance."

The lieutenant said nothing. She thrust the keys toward him once again. They jangled like a horse bridle.

"I remember all too well what I said on New Year's Eve, but you needn't indulge me. Not when-"

"You keep talkin', but all I hear is, 'I'm too big of a chicken to get behind the wheel of a car,'" Abbie said boredly.

" _Chicken_?" She could not possibly think him to be a coward. Not after all they had endured together. The very thought was a slap in the face to their bond as Witnesses.

Unless.

"You are attempting to goad me into doing your will by casting aspersions against my courage," he accused.

"Sure am," she said without a trace of shame. "Because this is  _not_ an indulgence. This is life or death stuff. What if I get knocked out and you can't drive us to safety? What if I'm not with you and running on foot isn't going to cut it? Think of this as a lesson in How to Be a Better Witness."

He could not argue with her pragmatism, so he reluctantly accepted the keys. She smiled, pleased that her gambit had worked, and led the way out of the station. Ichabod started toward her vehicle, but she whistled to draw his attention to a marked police car. "Didn't really think I was gonna risk  _my_ car, did you?"

"Your confidence is truly an inspiration."

He surrendered the keys so she could transport them to a massive stretch of empty pavement. It sprawled on seemingly for miles, cracked concrete penetrated here and there by hearty grass. On the way, he attempted to watch her, to divine the use of the stick between them, what her feet did with the pedals, how she interacted with the other drivers.

He tugged at his collar. This should be simple. Surely conducting a piece of machinery would be far simpler than dealing with the capricious needs and wants of another living being. Though, granted, horses did not move nearly so fast...

They both made their egress from the car. The lieutenant threw the keys in his general direction over the top of the vehicle, and he just managed to catch them. He raised an eyebrow, but she smiled. "You're up, champ."

Ichabod bent double to peer into new territory: the driver's seat. He would have attempted to sit, but even a cursory examination made it quite clear that would be impossible; his knees would be jammed against his chest. "There's a bar under the seat. Pull it up, then push the seat back," the lieutenant advised.

Once he was settled behind the wheel, she instructed him to adjust various mirrors and levers. Seemingly, there were a hundred changes that must be made before they could move forward.

"When is it customary for children to begin driving?" he asked, tweaking the  _rear view mirror_ yet again.

"In New York State, you can get a Learner's Permit at sixteen, which lets you get the ball rolling with supervised driving. Then at sixteen and a half, you can get a full license."

"License? You mean to tell me the state  _regulates_ who may or may not drive? It is as if the king told us who may or may not ride a  _horse._ Why do you accept the bit of tyranny so easily?"

"You 'member what happened to Jenny when her car crashed?" she asked sharply. "And she got  _lucky._ Car accidents are one of the leading causes of death in this country, so we try to make sure complete fucking morons aren't behind the wheel, okay?"

His hands fluttered over the wheel before him. Sometimes, he forgot. He forgot that he was not the only one who suffered. Who had lost. "My apologies, of course. I did not think."

"It's cool," she said shortly. "Anyway, you ready?"

"Do I not require this permit before we begin?"

"Nah, we aren't leaving the parking lot today. Once you're good, I'll pull some strings—and fake some documents—to get you your license. No big."

He looked at her sidelong. "Do all officers of the law share your willingness to completely ignore said law?"

"Just wait until I teach you to hotwire," she said with a slyness he did not understand. "So you gonna stop stalling or what?"

He shook his head; she gave no quarter. "Let us begin."

She was, in her brusque way, a good teacher. But there were so many things he did not understand: why could he only use  _one_ foot to manage the pedals when he had two perfectly operable feet at his command? ("So you don't ride the brake," she informed him. While he was familiar with all of those words individually, he could not comprehend them in that order.) How was he meant to watch the road ahead, the road behind, and the road to both sides all at once? ("A good driver looks in her rear view mirror every six seconds. Seems like a lot, but you'll get used to it.")

Driving was far more complex than he could have imagined. His arms grew tangled as he turned the wheel. They both lurched forward painfully when he applied the brake. "Gently. Like you're, I dunno, spurring a horse or something. Gentle, gradual pressure, or else you're gonna give us both whiplash."

"Truly, children learn this at age  _sixteen_?" he asked, once he had manipulated the car back into "park" as she bid him.

"Yup. Or earlier. I used to go joyriding on back roads in my boyfriend's Mustang when I was fourteen." Her eyes were distant, gleaming in the last shards of sunset. "God, that was a sexy car. Cherry red. He rebuilt the engine himself."

"You find cars...arousing?"

She laughed. "It's a power thing, you know? Obviously this old POS is about as sexy as seeing your grandma in her girdle, but when you're driving a  _real_ car, one with sleek lines and a big, rumbly engine? And you're the one who's perfectly in control of it, the one who's keeping it all from going to hell and ending in a fiery crash? God, what could be sexier than that?"

It should be uncomfortable to discuss such things with her. Every bit of his upbringing told him that around a lady, he should use only the subtlest of innuendos, the brush of a hand, the lift of an eyebrow to discuss...personal interactions. But with her, there were no longer barriers between them. He was aware that she had "friends with benefits," as she charmingly called them, and that such things were not unusual.

In truth, he was jealous. There had been a time when he had been able to find such oblivion in the arms of an anonymous woman. A time before he knew love, before he knew Katrina. But now...it was not that he feared being unfaithful. Katrina had been so very clear: she wanted him to know love again. But there was a grave difference between love that spanned centuries and survived wars and sweaty, inebriated fumblings. No matter how much his body might wish for such things, his mind insisted he wait for love to find him again.

Of course, it was far more likely he would die first in these Tribulations than that he would ever again know the love of a woman. But there were other outlets for his passions, and he would use them. Even if the lieutenant's discussion of sex did cause him to shift in his seat uncomfortably.

"Certainly nothing could possibly be 'sexier' than several tonnes of metal and plastic," he said with deliberate flippancy. "I stand quite corrected."

She grinned. "One of these days, I'll take you to a car show. And then I promise that you will agree with me on the sexy front. You just haven't seen the right cars. They can be a work of art."

"I have seen my share of horseflesh which was clearly molded by the hand of God Himself," he admitted. "My father had an especially exquisite stallion. Flaming red as a sunset, with a white star blazoned on his forehead. I was never permitted to ride him, but to watch that horse run was to see poetry in motion."

"See? Exactly the same thing. Except a McLaren 12C is faster and stronger than six hundred and thirty horses put together."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Horsepower. How you measure how fast a car is. Here, c'mon." She leaned over him, lightly pushing his knee away, and pulled a lever. He jumped as the front flap of the car before them lifted up.

They walked to the front of the car, and she pushed the "hood," as she called it. They leaned over the warm engine, which smelt gently of oil. "Ichabod Crane, meet the internal combustion engine."

He fell in love at once.

She explained this marvel of engineering in patient detail. How the pistons moved to compress a combustive mixture of air and gasoline; how a tiny spark ignited that mixture and they were literally propelled forward by tiny explosions _._

It was the perfect vehicle for these modern times in which he'd found himself. In this world so deeply torn by war, so driven by what was  _au courant,_ in this world a second away from complete annihilation, they navigated the face of the earth atop volatile conflagrations.

When the last light had faded and he could no longer tell the  _spark plug_ from the  _dipstick,_ they reluctantly climbed back into the vehicle. Miss Mills extended her legs and smiled ruefully as they came nowhere near reaching the pedals. She moved her seat up.

"You have quite converted me, Miss Mills. I greatly look forward to learning more and gaining my road legs, as it were."

"Then my work here is done." She cast him a puckish glance, then suddenly slammed her foot onto the gas pedal. They shot along the deserted road with a mighty roar.

He clutched the door handle until his hand ached, but he could not suppress the elated laughter that burst from him as they galloped through the night.


	23. Wham, Bam, Thank You, Ma'am

 

"Lieutenant! Come look at this."

Abbie hung her head. So. Damn. Close. She had her hand on the door and everything. Stupidly, she'd thought she was out of the woods: She'd ducked the CO, successfully evaded the 911 operator who wanted to talk about her love life, and managed to avoid Morales, who was making puppy dog eyes at her again.

But leave it to Crane to foil her best-laid plans.

"I believe I have made inroads toward uncovering the identity of the fourth horseman. There is an Aramaic inscript-good Lord, what are you wearing?"

"Is horseman number four gonna bust up in here tonight, or can this wait until tomorrow?"Abbie asked, tapping her foot.

Crane's eyes traveled from her curly, un-straightened hair to her little black dress to her four-inch spike heels. Then they traveled back up. Not in a pervy wolf-whistle kinda way, but in the trademark Ichabod Crane "I do not have the cultural knowledge to understand what I am seeing" kinda way.

"Eyes here, Crane. Right here," she coached. He flinched and immediately looked her full in the face. He blushed in a way she would have found very endearing if she wasn't desperate to get out of here. "I am going on a date. This is what people wear on dates."

"I was not aware you owned a dress," he said.

"You aren't aware of a lot of stuff," she said bluntly. "Can this wait?"

"Who is your companion for the evening?" he asked, the Aramaic inscription long forgotten.

"Crane."

"Is it not simply a wise  _precautionary measure_ for me to know whom you are with? What if he reveals himself to be a demon, or worse, a Tory?"

"What the hell is a Tory?"

"What the hell is his  _name_?"

Her only chance of getting out of here was to play along. Otherwise, he might follow her to the damn bar. "Brendan, okay? His name is Brendan."

Crane narrowed his eyes. "An Irishman?"

"He's from Nebraska."

"And how did you meet Brendan of Nebraska? Does he come highly recommended, with a letter of introduction?"

"I pulled him over for speeding. I gave him a ticket, he gave me his number." She got a lot of numbers and a lot more nasty propositions, but this guy seemed different. He'd fessed up to speeding, been perfectly cheerful about it, and only offered his number  _after_ she'd given him the ticket; no attempts at bribery. Plus he had these dimples that just wouldn't quit. "What else do you want to know? He drives an Audi and is a scientist over in Tarrytown, at Siemens. That's about all I got."

Crane's head whipped toward her. "I beg your pardon?"

"No, Siemens, with an i. It's a-" She glanced down at her phone. "I'm gonna be late" Stop. Fuck that. "No. I am not gonna be late. I am going to leave. That is what I am going to do. I will call you tomorrow." She shoved the door open and strode into the parking lot.

One night was all she wanted. One night of harmless, stupid fun with a hot guy. One night off from being a cop  _and_ a Witness. Sure, she would have to concoct some reason why they couldn't go back to her place, because her sister was recovering from a demonic car crash there. And sure, she would always be on the lookout for anyone spitting pea soup or whatever, but she'd hoped that she could have one night when she could just be the old Abbie again.

Old Abbie was fun. Boys, beer, baseball, and busting bad guys. Yeah, she'd been a seething mass of fear and self-loathing under all that, but no one else had known. Just one night....

"I have made you cross," Crane said, appearing by her side. How someone so big could move so lightly, she didn't know. But she didn't give him the satisfaction of looking surprised.

"Not cross, just in a hurry," she said.

"I meant what I said, about being concerned for you. It is not safe here, as well you know."

"Not safe anywhere, but I appreciate the concern. I have my gun. Also my phone. I will be fine." They stopped at her car. "We're cool. Really. Later you and me can meet up and braid each others' hair and I'll tell you all about my date, okay?"

He smiled. "I believe you  _would_ sooner plait my hair than you would divulge the details of your 'date.' But do be careful, Miss Mills. Please?"

"You got it." She slid into her seat.

Crane caught the edge of the car door. "Speaking of hair-"

"Yes, I will braid your hair all pretty if you want me to."

"Yours looks beautiful. Free and..." he trailed off, spiraling a finger through the air. "It should make a favorable impression on Master Brendan."

Before she could respond, he gently shut the car door. He turned and marched back towards the station.

Huh.

It had to be hard for him, she mused as she turned onto Route 9. Maybe he didn't even know how hard yet, because he was still mourning Katrina. But eventually, the sadness would pass and Crane would want someone he could be with, for a night or for a lifetime. And that was going to be hard as hell. Even if they put aside the awkward "I am a studly time traveler slash apocalypse averter and I used to be besties with George Washington," it still wasn't going to be easy finding someone who could deal with the  _Craneness_ of him. His prickliness, his scary-smart intelligence, his razor-blade tongue. Abbie was used to it and could happily tell him to fuck right the fuck off, and she was able to follow his logical leaps and digressions into arcane history, but some random chick at a bar?

Maybe there was a dating site for MENSA members. Or other people involved in the occult. When he was ready, she'd be there to help.

But tonight was all about her.

* * *

 

"You should stay," Brendan murmured sleepily. "I'd like it if you stayed. I'll make huevos rancheros in the morning."

Abbie zipped the back of her dress, straining to get it the last few inches. "That's sweet of you, but I can't. My dog gets restless if I leave her alone too long." Now where was her other shoe?

"Then I'll come with you. I love dogs. What kind is she?"

"Oh, you know. The dog kind." Or the fictional kind. Why she just didn't say her sick sister was staying with her, Abbie wasn't quite sure. Maybe because it was none of his business. Maybe because the idea of talking about her sister was new and still strange for her. She located her other heel and slipped it on. "I had a really great time tonight—really--and I'll take a rain check on those huevos rancheros." She leaned over to kiss him, his lips still swollen and warm from their earlier recreation.

Outside, the air was damp with that kind of mist that can't just man up and be rain already. She drove slowly, in no real rush to get back to her apartment.

Brendan had been great, everything you could want in a date. Funny, interesting, happy to go down on her. But even though she intended to see him again (and fuck him again), there would never be any eggs.

She tried to justify it by saying that she couldn't get too close to people now. It made them targets. But she would have done the same wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am routine before all this happened, and she knew it. She hated the cuddling (she always got too hot and her arm inevitably fell asleep and then she had to pee and no thank you), the awkward pillow talk, the false domesticity of cooking breakfast. It just wasn't for her. No, give her a few hard ciders, a pleasant chat, and a nice roll in the hay, and she was set.

Abbie heard Jenny's loud, drug-induced snores before she even opened the door. Good. Sometimes Jenny refused to take her pain pills and stayed up all night, listening to Bob Marley and cleaning her guns, which Abbie always thought was a weird combo. Even tonight, the kitchen counter was littered with barrels, slides, and safety catches from at least three weapons. Abbie briskly reassembled them and stored them with the rest of Jenny's arsenal under the sink.

She stood in the shower until she smelled liker herself again, instead of like Brendan.

She was just drifting off to sleep, curled on the couch, when her phone buzzed with a text message. She was ready to ignore it, but then it buzzed again, and a second later, again. She fumbled for her phone, convinced the world was ending.

Three texts. All from Crane.

"Miss Mills, please do not interpret this missive as prying into your affairs. I require no lurid details of your evening, though I most sincerely hope it was pleasant. I do, MESSAGE HAS EXCEEDED CHARACTER LIMIT."

"Why must this infernal device limit my letters? Who decided that nothing of importance could be more than one hundred and sixty characters? Continuing on, I do, however, MESSAGE HAS EXCEEDED CHARACTER LIMIT."

"DAMN. I humbly request that you verify that you are indeed alive and well. Sincerely yours, etc, Ichabod Crane."

Abbie snorted. "im good, just got home. Jenny's good, 2. what did you want to tell me about the aramaic thing? PS, this is why I use abbv."

She had nearly fallen asleep before he texted back. "I am glad, though I never doubted your ability to protect yourself. '2' in place of 'to' saves merely a letter! The Aramaic proved a false lead, alas."

"Go to sleep, Crane. Happy now?"

"Quite. Sleep well, Miss Mills."

She drifted off with the phone still in her hand.


	24. Reflections

Ichabod's boots were covered in sticky mud. Everything stank of dead fish and stagnant water. There were very likely demons waiting for them. But none of that frightened Crane.

He was terrified of a pipe.

It was, indeed, a large pipe; perhaps six feet in diameter, leading into a green hillside near the Hudson River. But to him, it yawned like the gates of hell, waiting to swallow him whole. His palms sweated; his head buzzed as if he were beset by bees. He would go in; he  _must_ go in. After all, this was the first solid lead on Jeremy's whereabouts in months. He'd found a scrap of ancient foolscap written by a long-dead French missionary wedged in the pages of General Washington's Bible. The missionary had transcribed the language of the native Weckquaesgeek people into French transliterations; the whole effect was like reading a language after it was battered by a mortar and pestle. But with his working knowledge of the Mahican language, he had managed to puzzle out a location— _this_ location—where the "shield bearer of War waited."

"Hey." Abbie tugged on his sleeve. "Why don't I go in first, see what it's like in there? Maybe we've got the wrong place."

They both knew the place was exactly right, but Ichabod only nodded gratefully. "Wise. I shall stay here, so I may guard your back."

She gave him a long, thoughtful look, then boosted herself into the pipe. The beam of her flashlight bounced into darkness. Crane wiped his palms upon his trousers. This was absurd. He was the master of his emotions, and there was no reason whatsoever to fear entering the earth.

And yet.

Mills Mills had gone no more than ten paces before she called back, "Crane? You need to see this. It opens up after a few feet. Lots of room in here." A pause. " _Lots."_

His curiosity was piqued, and certainly he could make it "a few feet." He clambered into the pipe, hunching uncomfortably. The walls pressed close on either side; the water beneath his feet seemed to grow deeper with every step, though surely that was his imagination. Miss Mills had said all was well, that there was room and space. But now, it was all darkness and damp.

His breath caught in his throat, and he nearly turned and fled back to the sunlight when a bright gleam ahead caught his attention. He jumped down a small step to stand beside Miss Mills, and gaped in amazement at the scene before him.

Somehow, beneath this little hillock, lay a fairy forest of crystal. The roof soared above their heads like a cathedral, light pouring down from an unseen source. The walls rolled away into unseen, impossible distances. From every surface, sharp hexagonal spires of clear quartz erupted. Each facet gleamed, a perfect mirror, infinitely reflecting a shattered world.

"How marvelous," he breathed. His fear crouched at the base of his spine, ready to strike, but the impossible wonder of this place—and its ample breathing room—kept it at bay. He moved forward, hands gliding over the mirror-slick quartz before him. "There must be an illusion of some sort, making it seem so much larger within the mound than it is without."

"Or we entered another dimension. Or hell," the lieutenant said ominously, drawing her weapon. "You wanna stop groping the rock so we can get on with this?"

"It's a geological improbability," he mused. "This is not at all the sort of rock formations that  _should_ be here."

"We're chasing the hounds of War and you're caught up in the  _geological_ improbability of it all?"

"Yes. Because if it is improbable, then there is a reason for it. Why go to the trouble of rearranging the local terrain?" Crane's own reflection winked back at him from the smooth planes of quartz; behind him, he could see Miss Mills purse her lips.

"Maybe. Or maybe they just like fucking with us. Can we get moving?"

They wended their way through the stone forest. Despite the great beauty of the place, Crane's unease grew. Everywhere they looked, they saw themselves staring back in broken pieces—here an eye, there a hand. But as of yet, no sign of War's—of his son's—foot soldiers.

"So do we have any clue who might be waiting for us?" she asked.

"The parchment said that the shield bearer was 'one of the Seven.' But that could mean almost anything," Ichabod said. He ducked his head beneath a low-hanging crossbeam of crystal.

"Seven's a big number. Seven years of tribulation, seven whatever-the-hell-these-things are."

"It is a number of the most profound mathematical and religious significance. Its status as a prime number alone would make it important, but when combined with-"

A sound like grinding teeth filled the air. Before either could react, a quartz tower rumbled between them, blocking his path backward and her path forward. There was no detour; razor-sharp shards of stone erupted to either side, threatening to shred any who dared cross.

"Crane!" she cried. "You okay over there?"

"Yes, and there's no need to shout," Crane said. "You should return to the mouth of the tunnel. I shall press forward and seek a method of egress." His voice sounded odd, echoing upon itself.

"The hell I should." The crystal spire separating them shuddered. The air filled with ferocious, painful ringing.

Crane caught a flash from the corner of his eye, but it was merely his reflection. Here he was, starting at nothing after only a few moments. He took a step forward, deeper into the crystalline maze.

"She has such inelegant methods of problem solving," his own voice drawled from nowhere. "Hitting something with a stick and expecting results—crude, to say the least."

Excellent. Some sort of demon who specialized in mimicry. How charming. "Show yourself, you cowardly mockingbird," Crane said, turning in a slow circle.

"But I'm right here," his voice said, suddenly surrounding him. And though Ichabod's own mouth was closed, his teeth clenched in anger, the reflections that surrounded him  _spoke_. "And no mere mockingbird."

"You are a demon," Crane said, half a question, half a statement.

"I am a friend."

He snorted, straining his ears for any sound from the other side of the crystal barrier. Silence. "What have you done with Miss Mills?"

"She is insignificant. Not like you, sir. You interest me a great deal. As does your son."

He would not listen. He would not trust the word of this  _thing_ that wore his face and bore his voice. "Lieutenant!" he bellowed. But the sound gave no echo, as if they were in a padded room.

"How tiresome. You have my word that she is well." An image flickered in the heart of a prism; Miss Mills thrusting her shoulder against the quartz that divided them, shouting. "But for now, let us set thoughts of your lieutenant aside."

Ichabod glared, but in his reflection, the look was more petulant than fierce. He swallowed. "Say your piece, then. I shall hear your lies, and then you shall free me."

"Of course. You will be free to do as you wish," his reflection said with a solicitous bow.

"What is this of my son? I was told you are his...companion."

"Yes. A good friend." His mirror-self clasped his hands loosely behind his back in parade rest. "Which is why I wish to help him."

"Please share with me your definition of 'help.'"

"I do not wish for War to consume all that Jeremy is. I believe he is capable of far more, of being a force for good in this world. I see him with a father's eyes, as you do. And I wish to free him from his dark destiny."

Crane's heart beat painfully. Here it was, in the palm of his hand. The very thing he wanted for his son—a fresh chance at life, a chance to be happy and free, not some pawn in the end of days. But even as he saw hope dawning in his eyes, he forced himself to be temperate. "Why? Why such an interest in Jeremy?"

"I have been his constant companion for years. When you could not be there—through no fault of your own, of course—I was with him. I care for him a great deal."

"Who are you?"

"A friend," the reflection said with a smile. "You need know nothing more, though I daresay you are clever enough to unravel my secrets, given time."

Seven. One of the seven. Perhaps instead of a demon, could he be dealing with an angel? After all, there were seven cardinal virtues. Could he be speaking to  _Benevolentia_ or  _Caritas?_ "How would you help my son?"

"Jeremy was bound to War with the pain and suffering of the grave. You, too, have known that terror. But he was also bound with blood, as all pacts must be. Blood you share," he said gently. "You are the only one who can free him. With a sacrifice of blood, freely given." The top of a quartz pillar beside him crumbled, and a perfectly formed dagger fell to the ground with a gentle  _plink._

Crane stared at the knife's gleaming edge. "There is another way," he said softly, as much to himself as to his counterpart. "There is always another way."

"Ah, yes. You have faced this choice before, have you not? You were brave enough to sacrifice yourself for the entire world. And who saved you then, hm? Jeremy. Though he hated you with an intense and dark passion, he saved you from the poison. But I know you have courage enough to repay his sacrifice. As great as you are, as great as your  _destiny_ is, you have love and bravery enough to sacrifice yourself, the great Ichabod Crane, for your son."

His reflection knelt and picked up a dagger identical to his own. It sparkled in the light. "You are the only one who can do this. It is your blood, your suffering, your status as a Witness. Only you in this world have the power to free him, to sever his supernatural bonds and let him live out his days as a man. To tend his plants and solve his puzzles. To be happy."

From his earliest days, Ichabod had known he was different from other boys. Smarter, cleverer, quicker. When he had come to the colonies, he had dreamed of being important, of being a great general. When he turned his coat, his dreams had shifted, and he had dreamed of being a great leader, not of armies, but of men. In all his dreams, greatness loomed. But now, more than anything, he longed to be a great father. The father his son deserved. And this...perhaps this was the way.

Crane sank to his knees. His hands closed around the cold dagger. "How do you know this will free him?"

"I know many things," his reflection said in a voice so kind, it scarcely sounded like his own. "I know you are afraid. But I know that your love is greater than your fear. I know you will do the right thing for your boy."

"But he will still be broken," Ichabod said. "He will still remember that he was alone, that he was trapped in that coffin. He'll remember what he became-"

"He will remember that he had a father who loved him." His reflection placed the dagger point on his wrist, just below his palm. A bright streak of blood bloomed into dozens of reflections around them. "He will remember what a great man you were."

Ichabod was the only one who could save Jeremy. The responsibility lay heavy upon him. Not only could he give his son the kind of life he deserved, even briefly, he could, if not halt the apocalypse, at least delay it a while.

It all came down to him.

He raised the dagger to his own wrist. The slightest pressure drew blood. His reflection leaned toward him.

A voice came, as if from a great, great distance. "Crane, what the  _fuck_ are you doing in there? Say something!"

What the fuck  _was_ he doing? He could not save Jeremy; only his son could do that. He looked up sharply and stared his reflection full in the face. His blue eyes stared keenly back at him.

Crane reared back and jabbed the knife into the reflection's eye with all his strength. At first he met skittering quartz, but then the knife broke through with the squelch of blade on flesh.

His own scream echoed through the cavern. The ground buckled and shook beneath him, and still his wailing surrounded him.

Then she was there. He did not know how she had reached him, and he had no time to wonder. She seized his hand, and together they ran, crystals raining down upon them. Then, somehow, they jumped into the sunlight, each of them sinking deep into the Hudson River mud.

"What the everloving  _fuck_ happened in there? I couldn't hear anything, but I saw this bright flash, this flash of red, and I know something was happening, but-" she shook her head, breathing heavily. "Just tell me what happened."

Crane stared at his wrist, at the tiny puncture in his flesh. Then, slowly, standing in the muck, he told her.

"I heard you—and your colorful language, was that  _quite_ necessary?-and I knew that I was being deceived. This creature was telling me I could do things that are not in my power, that should  _not_ be in my power," he finished. "Lies do not come from the Divine. Therefore, it must have come from the Enemy." He sighed. "I still don't know what precisely it was, however. I must engage in more research."

"Really, smart guy?" she asked slyly.

He arched a brow. "You know. How do you know?"

"One of the seven. The shield bearer of War. All those things he told you, about how special you were, how only you could save Jeremy." She ticked the evidence off on her fingers. "C'mon, Crane, that was Pride."

Of course it was.  _Of course it was._ He felt a right idiot for not seeing it sooner. "And that is why you were able to draw me from its clutches."

"What's that?" she asked.

"You keep me humble," he said simply.

She grinned and nudged him with her shoulder. "You need it sometimes. Well, everybody does. But that big brain of yours can give you a big head."

Indeed. The demon had known just how to flatter him, how to prey on his own inherent feelings of  _superbia_ to make him dance to its tune. Without the lieutenant's intervention, he would have sacrificed himself fruitlessly. Again. "As you have proven today. My thanks."

"Don't mention it. But just let me say again: the next time someone says you should kill yourself for  _any reason,_ just assume it's a trap and don't do it. Okay?"

His lips curled into a self-deprecating smile. "Okay," he echoed.

They trudged through the mud. Ichabod understood why Pride had targeted him; it had always been his weakness, and a dangerous one. Pride was, after all, the sin that caused Lucifer to fall. But as he trailed behind the lieutenant, he could not help but wonder which of the seven might come for her.

Whatever it was, he would be ready.


	25. Open and Closed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, friends. Thanks for your kind words on the last chapter; we will return to the idea of Seven Deadly Sins, but first, we have some old business to take care of. Just to be on the safe side, this may be triggering for those who struggle with anxiety or PTSD. I am also not a therapist or psychiatrist, though the methods in this chapter are based on real techniques for dealing with phobias and trauma, so don't try this at home. Be well.

The theological seminary's library was pretty deserted on a Friday evening, with only a few men in dark colors and women in long skirts drifting around.

Abbie had been counting on that.

"I do miss university," Crane said, trotting beside her. "Whether as a student or a professor, I loved it with all my heart. Granted, Oxford is slightly grander than this Nyack College of yours, but the core principle is the same: gathering together the brightest youths in pursuit of knowledge."

"More like pursuit of a job that pays more than seven-fifty an hour," Abbie said. "Not too many go to college because they love it. Nobody can afford to."

"Must you utterly disillusion me on  _every_ aspect of modern life?" he asked, exasperated.

"That's pretty much my job." She drew to a stop in front of an elevator. "The codices are in the basement."

Crane did not break his stride. "Have a bit more vigor, Miss Mills—there must be a staircase nearby."

"There is. But we aren't gonna take it." She leaned forward and pressed the down button.

Crane finally stopped, his head tilted to the side like a curious Cocker spaniel. "And why not?"

"Why not take the elevator?" she countered evenly.

"Because it is the height of indolence and sloth to use a giant dumbwaiter to travel a distance of a single floor. And you wonder why most of your fellow citizens lumber about like overfed Jersey cattle!"

The doors to the elevator  _dinged_ open. Abbie lay her hand against the cool metal, keeping it from closing. "You done?"

"Yes. But I am still not getting into that box," he said, a tremor in his voice. Red splotches appeared on his throat and peeped out from his open collar.

Abbie was playing with fire and she knew it. She wouldn't have pressed him like this, not if there was any other way. But he refused to see the police shrink ("That bespectacled idiot once asked me if I were  _Scottish._ No one that daft deserves to know my innermost thoughts, thank you very much"), and his anxiety or PTSD or whatever was getting dangerous for the both of them.

It wasn't just how he froze up when he was in a too-tight, too-small, or too-underground space, though that was bad enough. He was always walking the knife's edge of a panic attack, and Abbie had to split her attention between making sure he was okay and that the Bad Thing du Jour was not murdering them. But it was little stuff, too. The way he jumped a mile whenever something startled him. The way he'd told her, after too many cups of rum, that he couldn't even stand the close quarters of his shower any more, but was giving himself baths in the sink like a hooker.

So Abbie had done her homework. She'd talked to the shrink about a hypothetical friend ("definitely not me, sir!") who may have PTSD. She'd read every book in the library and a hundred articles on the Internet. Now, she just had to see if she'd learned enough.

"What are you afraid might happen if you go into that box?" Abbie asked quietly. God, even the way she talked to him was tough: too gentle and he'd lash out, too aggressive and he'd shut down. She was the wrong person for this job.

"Is that why you lured me here? Under false pretenses? To test me, to see if I could do this?" He stormed away a few steps, then whirled back toward her, lip curled in a sneer. "I expect better from you,  _Lieutenant_."

"Nobody lied to you," Abbie said. "The codices are here. And they are in the basement. If you want to walk away and take the stairs, I'm not gonna stop you."

Crane's eyes were round; his feet danced like a spooked horse. Shit. This was just what she did  _not_ want to do: trigger a public panic attack. She wanted to say something—anything—to make him feel better. But she didn't. She stood in the doorway of the elevator and waited.

His fingers twitched like he was playing an invisible piano. Every now and then his lips moved, like he was arguing with himself. His eyes were glued to the open elevator doors.

"Talk to me," Abbie urged. "Tell me what's going on."

"What is it that you want me to say? That I am afraid of something so prosaic as a small room? That I no longer can even bear the weight of my own bedclothes, but sleep curled like an animal? That sometimes I feel as if my heart has been replaced with some small rodent that skitters and scurries according to its own rhythm? Is that what you wish to hear?" he cried, only about two notches away from yelling at her. In a library. Awesome. That wouldn't attract attention.

He wasn't pissed at her, she reminded herself. He was angry because as it turns out, Ichabod Crane's just another dude. Not a superhero, not immune to human emotions like fear. "It's a start," Abbie said. "You can't do this alone, Crane-"

"Sorry to interrupt, but are you using the elevator?" a student worker asked timidly. She pointed to her book cart. "I need to get these shelved before closing."

"All yours," Abbie said, stepping out of the way. The doors snickered closed behind the confused girl.

When Abbie looked at Crane, he had backed himself into a corner across from the elevator and slid to the ground, his long knees drawn up to his chest.

Abbie wanted to kick her own ass. She'd fucked up. Plain and simple. She'd tried to help, expose him to his fear in a safe way, and instead, she'd hurt him. God fucking dammit. But what had she really expected would happen? People didn't come to her for help with their  _feelings,_ and this was why.

She walked toward him carefully, like he was a wounded animal. "Look, I'm s-"

"It is as if there is a war waging inside of me. How irritatingly ironic," Crane said quietly. He wouldn't look at her, kept his eyes trained on the elevator. She took a deep breath and sat beside him. "I know that girl faces no danger in that elevator. I know that if I were to step inside of that contraption, I too would emerge intact. But my body, it doesn't know. It only remembers what it was like, in the..." Crane paused. Cleared his throat. Tried again. "In the..."

"In the coffin," Abbie finished for him. "Both coffins." What were the odds that one guy would get buried alive  _twice_?

"I remember nothing of my first entombment. I do not even know if I was alive or dead or something betwixt the two. When I...revived, as it were, I was afraid, but in the way a child in his mother's womb is afraid. He knows there is somewhere he must go, something he must do. That life awaits him."

The elevator doors opened. The two boys inside quickly unclasped their hands when they saw Abbie and Crane watching, and walked away with hurried glances over their shoulders. The doors closed.

"But when my son locked me in that coffin, it was the first time I truly, truly feared dying. I was always afraid; no man goes smilingly to his own demise. But on the battlefield, or with the poison, my death would have had meaning. Purpose." He shuddered, a subtle ripple down the length of his body. "But with the earth pressing in around me, all I could think of was the terrible danger you were in. How much was left undone." He laughed, but it sounded more like a cough. "More damnable pride speaking, I suppose."

"That one's not pride. It's love. You knew the rest of us were in danger, and your death meant maybe we would die too. I'm gonna give you a pride pass on that one," Abbie said.

"How kind. But as it turned out, my survival meant nothing. You were eminently capable of rescuing yourself, and what had been done to Katrina was already done. Perhaps it would have been better if-"

Abbie smacked his knee. Not hard, just enough to get his attention and startle him out of his pity party. It worked: he looked down at her, shocked. "We do not talk like that. Ever. In no way would that have been  _better._ We took out Headless, together. Couldn't have done that alone. You got to say your goodbyes to Katrina. And we're still gonna save Henry."

"But only if I can conquer my  _fear_." He spit the word out like it tasted rotten.

"I am the last person who should be giving advice on fear," Abbie said. "It's damn near run my life for as long as I can remember. So I know from experience, it sucks. And when you finally do face it, chip away at it, life gets better."

"But it doesn't ever recede completely. Does it?" Crane asked, looking over at her for the first time. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were bright, like he had a fever.

"Hasn't yet." Moloch was still out there. Jenny was still vulnerable. People might still think she was crazy and lock her up, too. All of it weighed on Abbie's shoulders every single day. But now she was strong enough to keep going in spite of the burden.

Crane raised himself slowly, an inch at a time, until he was standing. Abbie followed his lead. He darted toward the elevator and jabbed the button before he lost his nerve.

The doors opened. Crane hesitated, so Abbie stepped in first. She tried to see it it with his eyes, not as a plain steel box, but as a coffin whose walls might force together and crush her at any time. It was disturbingly easy to picture it, so she stopped. He was her focus now. She held a hand out to him.

After a few more moments of twitching silence, he stepped into the elevator, though he didn't take her hand. That was okay. She punched the first basement floor, and the doors shut.

If this elevator stalled, she was so fucked.

"Tell me about these codices down here. What are they exactly?" she asked. Like she didn't know.

Crane gripped the rail that ran around the outside of the elevator. His shoulders heaved a little too fast, and when he spoke, his voice was a little too high. But he was holding it together. "Calendar. A demon calendar of their high holy days."

"Holy seems like the wrong word there. Maybe high villainy days?" Abbie suggested.

He managed a weak smile at her weak joke and reached out, taking her hand. His was clammy, cold, and trembling ever so slightly, but she clutched it anyway.

The doors opened and he stumbled out, pulling her in his wake. She grinned. "You did it. Reward: demon books. C'mon." She started to walk into the darkened stacks, but he didn't budge.

"No." He poked the elevator call button. The doors sprang open immediately. "Again."

Abbie scanned his face worriedly. "You sure? Might be a good idea to take this slow-"

"The end of the world is coming quickly; it has no respect for 'slow.'" He marched back onto the elevator, arms clenched at his sides.

They rode the elevator up and down, down and up. Sometimes they talked-sometimes about stupid shit, sometimes about how he was feeling, what he was seeing. Sometimes he waved his hand for quiet and they listened to the creak of the elevator cables. Sometimes he ran out the minute the doors opened and stood with his back to her, fists pressed into his eyes. Sometimes he grimly selected the next floor without hesitation. They only stopped when the girl with the book cart told them the library was closing.

Crane looked like a wrung-out dish rag, covered in sweat and trembling in the knees. But he was smiling, and so was she.


	26. Mended

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this wasn't up sooner; I rewrote this chapter in vastly different ways at least four times. Sometimes, writing is like shitting a brick. This still isn't perfect, but sometimes, you've just got to let it go. Anyway, hope you're all doing well.

"Your goal is to make a delicious dish using the four mystery items in this basket. You must use each item in some way. Let's open 'em up."

Ichabod looked up from his mending and arched a brow at the nattering television. "Why must they use the ingredients in the basket? Would they not produce a superior plate of food if they used the ingredients they thought best for the task?" He squinted at the screen. "And what on earth is a  _'gummy snake'_?"

"You don't want to know," Miss Mills huffed. She was currently engaged in what she called  _sit ups,_ which looked rather like torture. "But it's a game, it's supposed to be hard. It's not fun if it's easy."

"I find eating well-prepared food quite amusing." He turned back to his sewing. It was a shame that poltergeist had hurled the knife at him; he hated to damage his new clothing so soon. But it was a small tear, and one easily mended.

"I thought a dude from your day wouldn't know how to sew." The lieutenant had finished her sit ups and was now sprawled on the floor of her parlor, one leg hugged to her chest, the other splayed out before her.

"This is hardly silken embroidery. I learned to sew in the army. It was either that or allow my wardrobe to become an utter disgrace, something my honor as a gentleman would not permit." He rather liked to sew, in truth. He took pride in his neat, tiny stitches, appreciated the way he could immediately see the results of his labor. "Besides, it is also quite useful for field dressing wounds."

"Well that's disgusting," she said pleasantly.

"Do you sew?"

She shifted, reversing the position of her legs. "Nope."

He pulled one of his stitches out, displeased with its crookedness. "What do you do when you tear a garment?"

"Throw it away and get a new one," she said with a shrug.

"You should permit me to teach you and change your slothful ways. In my day-"

"You keep doing that," she interrupted. "You really think I don't notice?"

"Do forgive me for discussing how life was conducted in the time in which I spent the majority of my days," he bristled.

"Not that. Pretty used to that by now. But you keep making these snide little comments about the Seven Deadly Sins. You even called me gluttonous the other day when I ordered ice cream with my pie. What's up with that?"

He sighed and tied off the end of his thread, severing the excess with a quick nip. Of course she would notice. He'd been foolish to think otherwise. "Since the first of the Sins came for me, it would only stand to reason that one—or more—would come for you. Henry will do all he can to undermine our faith in ourselves and each other." They had decided by unspoken agreement that the man who had become War was Henry. The boy Katrina had christened Jeremy was long, long gone.

"So you've been, what? Analyzing my behavior and trying to figure out which big bad I'm gonna be facing?" She stretched her arms high above her head.

"Yes. It seemed a prudent course of action. Forewarned is forearmed," he said, refusing to feel ashamed for his behavior.

"Well, sorry you did all that work for nothin'. But they aren't coming for me." She leaned forward, resting her head against her knee. Ichabod could not but notice the faint sheen of sweat at the back of her neck, clinging to the fine hairs.

"What gives you such confidence? You are, after all, the other Witness. It stands to reason that-"

She straightened, swiveling to face him. Her cheeks glowed softly with her exertions. "You said it: I'm the  _other_ Witness. You're the one they want, Crane. You're the one they've always wanted. You're the heir and I'm the spare."

"Where on earth did you get such a nonsensical idea? We are equals in every way, including in the eyes of God and our enemies."

" _I_ know that and  _you_ know that, but they don't. And I'm not complaining about it. It's a good thing. I'd way rather fly under the radar. But you're the one with the blood tie to both the first  _and_ second horseman. You're the one who traveled through time to fight this fight."

"First, I did not 'travel through time,' I was put into a magical state of suspension for two centuries. There is a vast difference. And second, I made that journey so that I could be with  _you._ Without you, I would have been dead a thousand times over, and the battle would be lost." How could she come to have so low an opinion of herself and this coming battle? Was it something he had said, something he had done? He would have to take greater pains in the future.

"Exactly. That's what I'm here for: to be your bodyguard. As long as you're still kicking, they're going to leave me alone. So instead of talking about what's coming for me, we should talk about which demon's coming for you next." She pursed her lips, giving him a measuring look. "I'm gonna go with...Wrath, maybe? Yeah. I remember you with that ax in the haunted house."

He had to admit, she was more than likely correct. But he was not the topic of discussion today. "Miss Mills, this belief of yours is not only disturbing to me personally, it is dangerous in the context of our larger battle. You cannot allow yourself to be caught off guard. You must be prepared when—not if—you are tempted."

She sighed, reaching up to tighten her queue. "Okay. Let's do it. Wow me with your insight. Which Sin do I need to be on the lookout for?"

Ichabod had done his utmost to give full and serious consideration to each sin, even Pride. Just because they had defeated one aspect of the sin did not mean it could not survive and catch them unawares. Did her elevator therapy indicate an undue belief in her own abilities? Or perhaps she, too, was susceptible to the wiles of Wrath, with the way she flung a string of colorful and creative curses at a driver who swerved before her in traffic, or the way she had beaten the Alp demon to a pulp with her baseball stick?

But no. After careful study, he was confident in his findings. "I believe you are most likely to be visited by..." he cleared his throat, hesitant to use the indelicate word. "By Lust."

To his shock, she threw back her head and laughed. "You callin' me a slut, Crane?"

"Under no circumstances!" he said quickly. His face was hot. "I am merely noting that you  _did_ spend three nights last week with Brendan of Nebraska."

"What makes you think we were doin' the dirty?" She turned to face him, a small smirk playing about her lips. She was actually  _enjoying_ his discomfiture.

"Have I misjudged you? Do you actually care for him?"

She looked away, and he felt a small surge of...relief? No, it was merely the rush of victory: he was right. "He's a nice guy."

"Nice is the most insipid adjective in the English language.  _Weather_ is nice; people we care about merit stronger language," he said.

"Look, you're right, we don't spend a lot of time talking. He'd like to, if I'd let him, but I'm not really in a position for a relationship right now. Keeping him at arm's length keeps him safe," she said.

"It keeps you safe, too," he said quietly.

"What was that?"

"Nothing." He would be blind if he had not seen the way she kept  _everyone_ "at arm's length." She had done her utmost to do the same to him, but he would not allow her to remain distant; the very nature of their bond forbade it. But with others, even with her sister, she would allow no one past her stern exterior.

"Whatever. You're wrong anyway," she said with a dismissive flick of her hand.

"So you admit you have considered the possibility."

"I've got some contingency plans, yeah. But just because someone enjoys sex doesn't mean they're a raging lust monster." She cast him a sly sideways glance. "Not to rush you or anything, but getting laid might do you some good."

He rose from the couch and strode toward the large glass doors that led to her tiny balcony; at least this way she could not see the way his cheeks colored. He clasped his hands firmly behind his back. "This is not a topic up for discussion, Miss Mills."

"Why not? You've obviously given  _my_  sex life a lot of thought."

"I pass no judgment upon your nocturnal activities; you are a grown woman and you may do as you please without censure from me or anyone. This is purely in the context of protecting you from demonic activity" he protested. In the course of his contemplation, he had done his utmost not to imagine her in a...compromised situation, never to picture it must be like when she was in this Brendan's arms.

But then, he was only human.

"Maybe this is my way of protecting you, too." Her face softened. "I worry about you. You're alone so much, and it's-"

He whirled back to face her, jabbing a finger in the air. "Again, you deflect honest discussion of yourself and your needs, reflecting them back upon me. Good God, Miss Mills, what are you so  _afraid_ I might discover?"

She reared back as if he had struck her, and he immediately regretted his words. "Go fuck yourself."

"Now there is no need for vulgarity. But if I have overstepped my bounds-"

"There are no bounds and you know it. I have shared  _everything_ with you, and still you want more. Jesus fucking Christ." She flung herself up from the floor and snatched her keys from the table.

Something had gone wrong. Terribly wrong. Yet Ichabod was at a loss for a way to repair the damage. "Don't leave; this is your home. If you wish to be alone, it is I who should go."

"I need to clear my head. You do whatever you want." She sounded as distant and cold as she had the day they had first met, as if they were strangers once more. He could actually watch as she donned her impenetrable armor, as she squared her shoulders and jutted her chin defiantly into the air.

"Abbie-"

"No," she said flatly. "Don't  _Abbie_ me. For once, I don't want to share our feelings and learn and grow and hug and make up. Okay? Just..." She shook her head. "I can't. Not right now."

The door slammed, and he was alone. Something hot prickled at his eyes. Should he stay and await her return? Or should he go and allow her time and space to calm herself? She would, wouldn't she?

She had to.

Some small portion of him wondered if this could be laid at the feet of demons attempting to sow discord between them. But he knew in this case, frail and fragile humanity was to blame, from both sides.

He located a scrap of paper and a small, stubby charcoal pencil. He took great care to make his letters plain and unadorned; she so often complained his hand was difficult to read.

_Miss Mills,_

_My gravest Apologies for the offense I have caused. My Intentions were pure, though my delivery was lacking. I hope-"_

He stopped and crossed out every word he had written in thick, dark strokes. He started again:

_I am sorry._

_Crane._

He left the note on her dining table. Cold spring rain fell upon him as he made the journey to his cabin.


	27. Abbie

Naugahyde crackled as she sank onto the bar stool. Just being here calmed her more than the booze would; the swirl of activity, the  _thwack_ of darts, the muffled bass of songs too covered up by chatter to hear. She could just sink into the noise and disappear.

A sauasage-fingered hand threw a cocktail napkin in front of her. "Hey Abbie."

Abbie. Fucking Abbie. How had Crane managed to turn her own  _name_ into a weapon? He thought he could just pull it out, coupled with some serious puppy dog eyes, and she'd do anything he wanted. Let him go kamikaze? Sure, he called her  _Abbie_ so it must be serious. Forgive his prying into every aspect of her life? But  _Abbie,_ he was really sorry!

Bullshit.

"Hey Merle," she said, trying to get a grip on her temper. It wasn't his fault Crane was being...Crane. She was glad Merle was behind the bar tonight. They'd known each other since before she could (legally) drink; she'd tried to sneak into the bar at least once a week, and he'd thrown her out just as often. The night she turned twenty-one, though, he'd paid her whole bar tab. They'd been buds ever since. "Can I get a double whiskey? Neat."

"A double," the bartender mused as he turned toward the orderly, if sparse, rows of booze. "Must've been a rough day. Don't tell me you had to haul Bob Joosten in again."

She snorted softly. "For once, no."

"Small blessings." He reached for the whiskey on the top shelf.

"Not in my budget. Well's fine." He ignored her, pouring two fingers of Chivas Regal. Moments later, she lifted the glass, toasting him. "Thanks. Appreciate it."

Merle winked at her and wandered off to do bartender stuff. That's what she liked about him: he knew when to butt out.

Unlike  _some_ people she knew.

Not that Crane didn't mean well. Of course he did. And that just made it worse. He thought he was doing the right thing, so when she got pissed, he got hurt. But this time, he'd just gone too far. Crane already knew her better than anyone. Hell, probably knew her better than everyone else on the planet  _combined._ But he still wanted more. He wanted to know what she felt and thought and  _was,_ when you stripped away all the bullshit and all the fear.

Abbie wasn't even sure who she was when all that was gone, so how could she show him?

She never noticed how bad regular whiskey was until she drank the good stuff. It tasted like sticky summer nights.

The worst thing was, all of her pissed-offedness was covering up for the question he shouldn't have asked and she couldn't answer:  _What are you so afraid I might discover?_

He already knew she was a coward. He already knew she was a liar. He'd seen her rage against her own flesh and blood; he'd seen her broken and despairing. But even knowing all the worst things about her, he'd chosen to forge his fate with her. So maybe-

"You waitin' for somebody?" Merle asked, wiping his hands on his once-white apron. She must have looked confused, because he nodded toward the door. "You keep looking."

Of course she was. Hadn't even realized it, but she was already tensing for him to come bursting through that door, weirding everyone out with his getup, and demanding to speak with her, to make things right. It was kind of a shock that he wasn't here already, but then, he had to walk.

"Not really."

Merle leaned against the bar on one massive arm; his bicep was as big as Abbie's thigh. "You know, kid, I never woulda thought you'd stick around this nowhere town. I always thought you were gonna go on to do big things somewhere else."

"That was the plan." She turned the glass, running a finger over the lip smudge she'd left on the rim. "But life doesn't always work out the way you planned it." Or ever.

"I know, I know. Rough spot losing Corbin, then with your sister getting out of the asylum. You gave up a lot for those two."

She shrugged. "Anybody woulda done the same."

"No, most folks would've said 'too bad aboutya' and blown town as soon as they could. I mean, Quantico? Don't you ever wonder what it would be like if you were one of those  _Criminal Minds_ types? You could be really making a difference somewhere, you know?" Abbie smiled; it made her skull feel too tight. Merle straightened up, streaking one hand across his bald, pale head. "Not my business, I know. You've made the choices you think are right. But...man. Girl like you deserves better. That's all I'm saying."

"I don't  _deserve_ more than anybody else. But yeah, I wonder. Of course I wonder," Abbie said, honest for once. How could she not? There were so many things she'd wanted to do, see, be. Now, her identity was Witness. There wasn't room for anything else.

"I wonder a lotta things like that. Like, what if your dad had been there for you guys? Or your mom had pulled through? Or even if you'd gotten a decent foster family instead of those bums they stuck you with." He shook his head. "Always made me sick to see what they did to you girls. _"_

Abbie took a long, deep breath. She threw back the last drops of whiskey, trying her best to savor it. Might be a long time before she tasted booze this good again. Then she slid off her stool and looked up at the bartender. "You're not Merle."

He cut his eyes down to her empty glass, then back to her. "Sure I am, honey. Did you do some pre-gaming before you got here tonight?"

"I knew it'd be you." Her hand strayed to the small of her back, where she kept her .22 when she was off-duty. She doubted it'd do much good, but it made her feel better.

Not-Merle smiled and blinked with two pairs of eyelids. "Oh, yes. You and me are old friends, aren't we?"

It was kinda funny, but Crane had  _almost_ been right about which Sin was gunning for her. Both were about endless, aching wanting that threatened to eat you up from the inside out. It's just, with Lust, she usually got what she wanted.

With Envy, she never did.

"Whatever deal you got, I'm not talking 'til you're outta Merle," Abbie said flatly.

"Oh, this isn't Merle. Just looks like him. Merle's fishing up at Keuka Lake." The demon flexed his fleshy hands. "Kinda like it, though. Got some heft to it."

"Prove it's not him."

The demon huffed a pouty sigh—a weird look on the three-hundred-pound man—and Merle seemed to melt. Abbie blinked, and then standing there was Jenny, complete with her trademark smartass smirk. "Better?" Envy asked.

Abbie longed for another double whiskey. "Fantastic. Let's do this."

"Look, kid, I'm not gonna tell you anything you don't already know. Anything you haven't already  _thought._ Because whether you want to believe it or not, I'm a part of you. All Seven of us are."

"You know, that's weirdly comforting. 'Cause Crane was telling me about the Seven Virtues, which I'd never heard of. So it follows that if I've got all the Sins inside of me, I've already got everything I need to kick your ass, too" Abbie said, drawing her firearm and letting it dangle casually at her side.

"So you're gonna peg your hat on Kindness coming to save you? Good. Bring it. She's a weak-willed little cunt." That sounded a little  _too_ natural coming out of "Jenny's" mouth.

"You gonna tempt me or what?"

"Don't make it sound so tawdry. I'm here to make you a fair deal." Envy picked up her empty glass and held it high, so it caught the light. The surface shimmered. "I know the things you've always wanted, Abigail Grace Mills."

"Not exactly rocket science." Abbie kept her eyes trained on Envy.

"Don't be coy.  _Look._ " The glass glimmered at the edge of her peripheral vision, promising her everything, if only she would take a tiny peek.

Abbie leveled her gun at Envy. The demon laughed. "Really? You're going to  _shoot_ me? C'mon, you were never jealous of anybody's brains."

"Silver bullets," Abbie lied. "Dunno that they'll kill you, but they'll let me call in the cavalry."

"Let's think of the optics here, okay? Everyone's ignoring us right now because it's convenient for me." Abbie quickly glanced around the room; sure enough, everyone seemed oblivious to what had to be a really weird scene. "But the second it's  _in_ convenient for me, everybody sees you shoot your sister in a crowded bar. And that is really gonna screw up your life. So put that BB gun away." Envy somehow managed to capture the exact same notes of loathing and exasperation that Jenny used with her.

Reluctantly, Abbie let her weapon drop back to her side. "That's better," Envy cooed. "Now. Take a look at what's behind door number one."

Abbie looked.

There, shimmering in the glass, was a happy family. Her father's unfamiliar face, touches of gray just frosting his hair. Her mother, face creased with new smile lines she'd never had the time to get before she died. Jenny, no older than sixteen, grinning like a fool. And there was Abbie, happier than any of them, in a high school cap and gown. The imaginary family moved and flickered like a home movie; they hugged, they laughed, they shoved each other playfully. Her parents exchanged a quick kiss.

Abbie's breath caught in her throat.

"All you ever wanted was a little stability, an ounce of love," Envy said in a low voice. "You saw how angry other kids got with their parents and you thought, 'if I had a family like that, I'd never take it for granted.' I can give you that."

"Is that...is that really what they would look like?"

"Mhmm. Your mother only gets more beautiful as she gets older. Steel gray hair and the most graceful hands I've ever seen. I can give you those years you lost."

Abbie was starving for those unreal images Envy showed her. Maybe she didn't need to live it; maybe she could just stay here forever and peep through the windows at a life that might have been. But all too soon, the image swam and faded.

"Or hey, family's not everything, right? Maybe that's rewriting a little too much history for you. How about this?"

A new image formed on the glass. Abbie, in a suit that probably cost more than her car, placed her left hand on a Bible and raised her right hand. "I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God," her voice came from nowhere. The image swam again; she sat in the witness stand. "I'm here today to testify against the killer they call the Headless Horseman. My former colleague and friend August Corbin called me from the BSU in Quantico to deliver a profile of the serial killer." The vision shifted, and she could see Corbin, looking proud as could be, sitting in the front row of the gallery.

"It's what he would have wanted for you. He knew you had all that Clarice Starling greatness in you. And he was right. You could save a lot of people this way, Abbie. Put a lot of bad guys behind bars."

The version of herself in the image looked so confident, so sure of herself. She understood good and evil, and her place in it. She was smart and successful, not getting cussed at by drunks at checkpoints. And she had Corbin.

Envy turned the glass, and the image flickered out. "Or maybe, just maybe, you want something a little closer to home."

She and Crane walked at the edge of the woods behind his cabin, both laughing. But something was weird: they were standing close together.  _Really_ close together. She squinted, then her eyes widened.

He had his arm around her waist.

"What the hell is this?"

"Wait for it..."

The two of them drew to a stop, and Crane slid around in front of her. His hands drifted to settle on her hips, and he bent down—and down—until his lips were hovering just over hers. Abbie stood on her tippy toes to bridge the distance and they were-

"No," Abbie said. It was impossible, but she swore she could feel his lips, the rasp of his beard on her cheek. She scrubbed her palm against her mouth.

"Oh, I was surprised too. You've never envied love. Ever. But when you watched him and Katrina, how happy they were together even when things were at their lowest, the way he touched her...well, you weren't just jealous because they had each other and you had no one. You envied  _her._ "

This was a trick. Like she'd said, Envy and Lust were kissing cousins, and now they were trying to confuse her, drive a wedge between them.

She wouldn't let them.

"So you're offering me family, career, and love. Very creative. But you didn't mention what you're gonna charge for all this," Abbie said, hoping she sounded jaunty instead of...she didn't even know what to call this feeling.

"Nothing dramatic, not your soul or anything so trite," Envy said with a roll of Jenny's eyes. "All you have to do is renounce being a Witness, now and forever."

Abbie felt like she'd been struck by lightning.

That was the  _price?_ But that was all she wanted. To be normal _,_  to get the weight of the world off her shoulders. She fought because she was the only soldier they had, but if she could not  _be_ that person, if she could somehow find a way to escape her destiny...

Envy leaned forward. "Such a small thing," she crooned. "You don't even want it, do you? So let me take it away. And I'll give you every dream you never dared to dream. No more Moloch in the woods. No more shattered childhood. No more ruined plans. Lay down your sword, Abbie."

"Will there...will there be another Witness? Somebody else has to be called if I'm not. Right?" Abbie's own voice seemed far away. The glass flickered with images of her family again, with Corbin.

"Not your problem. You'll just be one of seven billion happy, oblivious people." Envy held the glass out to her. "All you have to do is take what you want."

The images spun with dizzying speed. Family outings. Prestigious awards. Eating pie with Corbin. Holding hands with Crane, but in a way that made her stomach clench. Again and again, she saw herself happy.

She reached out. Envy sucked in a triumphant breath.

To be just one of seven billion people. One of seven billion people who would die in agony and terror if she didn't do her duty.

Abbie didn't have the strength to fight her wanting any longer. But somewhere, deep down, she had just enough strength to run. As she stumbled blindly for the door, Envy laughed. "See you soon, sister. See you real soon."

Abbie sat behind the wheel of her car, staring into the night, but seeing only a thousand tomorrows she would never know.


	28. Olive Branch

Ichabod had expected to slip into the archives in the early dawn hours, when the world was composed of shadow and hope, and gather his thoughts. He had expected to be sitting there with his meager olive branch, pensive and contrite, when Miss Mills strode through the doors several hours later. He had expected more time to plan his apologies.

He had not expected to find the doors of the archive unlocked and the lieutenant hunched over a table, as if she had been there for hours.

She did not deign to look upon him. She merely began to read aloud: "'Just as the sun does not reach to their sight, so those shades of which I spoke just now God's rays refuse to offer their delight; for each soul has its eyelids pierced and sewn with iron wires, as men sew new-caught falcons, sealing their eyes to make them settle down.'"

Ichabod found himself quite taken with her reading, with the rhythm of her words. Of course, the clumsy English translation captured little of the poetry of the original, but for what it was, she read admirably. " _Il Purgatorio_ ," he said, still hovering in the doorway with his little brown paper sack.

"Yup. Envy doesn't even rate in  _The Inferno_. Gets, like, one line thrown in with greed. Pride gets a shitton, though, so guess you should be flattered." She flipped a page in the tome before her and winced. "Though maybe not; flatterers don't do so hot in hell, either."

"Envy, then. You fear it is Envy who will come for you. Not...another Sin," he said, taking a few careful steps toward her.

"No  _will_ about it. She—it, whatever—came last night." He bridged the distance between them with two long strides. His eyes raked across her; she seemed whole and unharmed, but then, these demons were dangerous for the emotional damage they could inflict, not their physical prowess. His guts twisted with anger. He should have been there. He should have been beside her, protecting her and reminding her what was real, as she had done so nobly for him. Their argument likely left her more vulnerable to the demon's wiles than she would normally be.

He had failed her.

As much as he wished to throw himself upon her mercy and beg for forgiveness like the penitent Alighieri, Ichabod forced himself to be still and quiet. He folded himself into a chair beside her. "Are you well? Did the demon harm you?"

"No. She didn't want me dead. She just wanted me to give up being a Witness." With cool detachment, the lieutenant recounted her tale. She recited the facts like a police report: How the demon had taken the form of first her friend, then her sister. How it had tempted her, like Jesus in the desert, with a healed family and a lustrous career. But then, she paused, looking down at the copy of  _Il_   _Divina Commedia._

"There is something else. Tell me," Ichabod demanded. She did not react, did not look at him, but he cringed. This was what had caused the rift between them in the first place, had it not? His steadfast belief that he had a  _right_ to know everything about his partner? He smoothed his brow and tried again. "It seems as if there may be information which you are reluctant to divulge. If you feel it is pertinent, would you be so kind as to share with me, perhaps? If, indeed, there is aught to know." His heart was not truly in the words; he still burned to know every last detail, no matter how seemingly insignificant. But he prayed they were the words she needed to hear to open herself to him.

She did not even smile at his awkward attempts. She rifled absently through the pages of the book. "No, there is something. And it's something you need to know. I just...I just don't know how to make it not awkward."

"What on earth could possibly be awkward between us?" he asked, puzzled. "You stuffed me into a pair of  _skinny jeans_  like a sausage into a casing. I used one of your  _sanitary pads_ to staunch a wound. Then, of course, there was the incident with the  _bicycle_ -"

"The demon offered me you, okay?" she said, finally daring to meet his eyes again. "She showed us kissing. Said that I was jealous of Katrina, not because I just wanted to be in love—which, I don't—but because I wanted to be with you. That's what she said. And it's not true but it happened and I thought you oughta know." The lieutenant folded her arms tightly across her chest, drawing her shoulders as if bracing for a blow.

Ichabod's heart gave a painful, thumping beat before resuming its natural rhythm. His mind was awhirl with the magnitude of the data being presented to him. He parted his lips to speak, to ask for some sort of clarification, but the lieutenant must have taken his silence for discomfort.

"Don't over-think this, man. Demons lie. It's what they do. They must have figured this would be a way to drive a wedge between us."

"Of course," he said too quickly. His face felt oddly frozen, as if it were not making the correct facial expressions. He forced his brows into a furrow, as if he were quite offended at the allegations.

"The way I see it, they're laying groundwork for another assault down the road. Drive a wedge between us with this love crap so that Wrath or Lust or somebody can come back and tear us apart. But we aren't gonna let them do that." She looked up at him expectantly. "Right?"

"Nothing shall ever tear us asunder," he murmured. "But truly, you do not long for love of any stripe? Not with me, of course," he hastened to add. "But with no one?"

She cast him a thorny warning glance, and he held his hands up in surrender. He would not pry further. At the moment.

"Let's stay focused on the important thing here: this shit came from  _a demon_. It's spewing bullshit at us. Look, I'm not gonna lie: I've wondered once or twice what it might be like if we hooked up. I've got eyes, after all. But that's it. We're partners in this fight, and we're friends. Best friends," she said, after a pause, as if even admitting they shared  _phillia_  was of the utmost difficulty for her. "Anything more than that and things will get weird. You feel me?"

"Fully felt."

"Cool. I just wanted to let you know, in case they came at you with that. Because I know Envy's gonna come back for me. Just a matter of time. So she might come for you, too."

"Hence your new interest in Dante." Crane nodded at the book, grateful for a new topic of conversation that did not involve the lieutenant picturing them  _in flagrante delicto_. Not that he hadn't had those same thoughts...

"Right. Thought there might be some info in here, but it's kinda light on the demon front."

"You have never read the Comedy?"

"Nope. Only the smart kid classes read it in high school. It's pretty, though I don't understand half of it."

He tugged the book toward him, brushing his fingers across the soft paper. "It is thick with allegory and complex Florentine history, true. But still, it is beautiful. A true melding of God and man to create art. And strangely appropriate for you, in a way."

"How do you figure?"

"' _Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita mi ritrovai per una selva oscura, ché la diritta via era smarrita_ ,'" he recited.

"Now you're just showing off."

He smiled, a familiar flush rising to his cheeks. "A bit, yes. But the musicality of the original is undeniable. But to translate: 'Midway in our life's journey, I went astray from the straight road and woke to find myself alone in a dark wood.'" He watched as recognition flashed in her eyes. "Like you, he traveled through the gates of Purgatory to free himself of old transgressions."

"Pretty sure it was just a metaphor for him."

"I am beginning to find that a startling number of things in life should be taken in their most literal sense," Ichabod said.

"Touché," she said. "So just in case Dante really did get his ass lost in the woods, how'd he get out?"

"Again, like you, he ultimately found the path by trusting himself, through faith in God, and with wise counsel." He steadied himself. It was time. "I have not always given you the wise counsel you deserve. I must beg your forgiveness for my actions yesterday." He touched her elbow gently, but she shifted away. He withdrew at once. "And I am deeply distraught that you had to face Envy alone. I wish I could have been your Peter, as you were mine."

"Woulda been easier with you there," she admitted, rubbing the place on her arm where he'd touched her. "But it's cool. I know you meant well. I know you were trying to help."

"I fear that sometimes I 'try to help' too much, and for that, I offer my profoundest and most heart-felt apologies. Also these donut holes." He offered the crumpled bag, almost forgotten.

She threw back her head and laughed, the sort of laugh that seemed to bubble from deep within her belly and overtake her entire body. "I will accept any apology that comes with donut holes." She withdrew one of the sweetmeats and popped it into her mouth. "Cinnamon and sugar. My favorite."

He restrained himself from saying that he knew, that he had taken special care to select those, rather than the ones rolled in snowy, soft sugar that he favored. He simply pushed the bag toward her. "Thank you," he said.

"Mmm," she acknowledged, licking her sticky fingers even as she pushed to her feet. "Anyway, I gotta get to my briefing. You wanna hit the books, see if we can bring this fight to the Seven so we can stop putting up with this bullshit?"

"Gladly. Until luncheon?"

"Yup. See you then." She pilfered two more donut holes from the bag and was gone.

Ichabod slowly rolled one of the dough balls between his thumb and forefinger, watching the way the sugar glistened in the dim light.

He could not shake the nonchalant way she had assured him she considered him only a friend and partner, the way she had shrunk away from his touch. Of course she was correct; of course demons would try to deceive them, to twist the truth into something ugly and cold.

Of course there could never be anything between them.  _Was_ nothing between them except the warm glow of friendship.

So why did her words inspire a dull bloom of pain within his breast?

Ichabod had been fortunate enough to find true love; most men could live a thousand lifetimes and never know what he had shared with Katrina. To even dare imagine he might know that tremendous love twice would be the height of avarice. He was merely lonely, still mourning his beloved.

And yet...

He crammed a donut into his mouth. It was all stuff and non-sense, a distraction, as the demons had intended. He shook his head fiercely and rose, intending to stomp off in search of a copy of  _Il Inferno_ in the original. But something caught his eye.

There, peeking out of the  _Commedia,_ was his apology note. He pulled it free and inhaled the faint scent of her musky perfume rising from the paper.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Abbie reads from 'The Purgatorio" by Dante Alighieri, translated by John Ciardi, Canto XIII, lines 67-71. Crane quotes 'The Inferno,' both the original and Ciardi's translation, Canto I, lines 1-3.


	29. Black and Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With special thanks to reviewer Dina C, who pointed out something I can't believe I missed in the last chapter and which will be explored further down the road. And to my wonderful, brilliant friend JWAB for letting me use her brains to flesh out this chapter.

The old jail in Yonkers was straight out of a bad horror movie. Flickering fluorescents cast a sickly glow across the garbage-strewn cell blocks. Paint peeled off of the wall in fat curls, floating to rest on top of metal toilets and overturned cots. Everything smelled vaguely of rat piss.

Perfect place for a demon to hide out, in other words.

"Would you care to place a wager?" Crane asked as he swept through a cell while she covered him. He led with his Glock like a pro, his stance perfect. She was pretty proud of him for that.

"Wager on what?" Abbie squinted at a piece of graffiti on the wall. That was...not anatomically correct. She smirked and moved on.

"Why, which of the Seven we will be facing today, of course. I believe we can safely rule out Envy and Pride for the moment; surely they will not attack again so soon, not when we know how to defeat them."

Abbie wondered if he really believed that. She hoped not, because it was a pretty fucking proud thing to think. "Hm. Interesting. If I win, you need to wear regular people clothes for a week."

"I  _am_ wearing 'regular people clothes,'" he protested.

"Twenty-first century regular people."

He harumphed. "Shirt and trousers only."

"Deal." She'd gotten to like the boots and coat. If he wanted to rock them with some straight-legged dark wash jeans and a t-shirt, she could get down with that.

"And in return, I of course would need to extract an appropriate wager from you." He bounced on the tips of his toes as he walked, bursting with excitement.

She cut him a sideways glance she hoped was appropriately withering. "You sound way too innocent right now."

"If I were to win—and I assure you, it's almost certainly Sloth lurking here—I would only ask to meet your Brendan." Crane had stopped fronting that he was looking into the cells; he walked sideways like a crab so he could watch her face with that eerie intentness of his.

Abbie should have seen this coming. Things had been different between them the last couple weeks since the Envy bombshell. Good different, she told herself vehemently. They didn't touch any more—no hip checks, no shoulder nudges, and definitely no hand holding. But they were still friends, still laughed and joked and killed things together. All that good stuff. And he had said absolutely nothing about her love life, which she appreciated. She was almost able to dismiss Envy as a liar

"Oh yeah, let me just try to explain you to Brendan. 'Hey, meet my smartass time-traveling partner who dresses like he's in a community theater production of  _1776'._ " She snorted. "Yeah, that'd go over real well with a scientist."

Their footsteps were too loud in the silence.

"You are ashamed of me?" Crane asked, giving his best kicked puppy impression.

"I see right through you, Crane. You aren't guilting me into meeting Brendan." But then, maybe it wouldn't be so bad? Maybe if Crane met him, he'd shut up about him. She didn't really want Brendan in the rest of her life, but if it meant Crane would cut her a little slack, it might be worth it. "Doesn't matter anyway, because you're gonna lose this bet. If anybody's hanging out in a jail, it's gotta be Greed."

And just like that, his hangdog look was gone. He held out a hand, eyes twinkling. Abbie waited a bare second, then grabbed his hand, gave it one quick pump—her fingers could barely span the edges of his giant paw—and dropped it.

They walked the empty cell blocks, one after the next. Abbie started to wonder if they'd been wrong about finding a demon here. The evidence was pretty sketchy: An old newspaper article had mentioned that an infamous gang called "The Seven" had prowled Yonkers in the '30s. Each of them had a weird quirk—one would eat all the food in his victims' homes; another napped in homeowners' beds after he'd slit their throats like some fucked-up Goldilocks. Eventually the whole crew had been captured and hauled into the city jail...and disappeared. No trace, never seen again. It was the best lead they'd had in more than a week, but so far, all they'd found were crack pipes and an a creative collection of shivs in the old CO's office.

Crane held the door marked "Chapel" open and bowed her inside, ever the gentleman. Abbie crossed the threshold and, without hesitation, emptied her clip into the nightmare waiting inside.

It was taller and skinnier than Crane, as if someone had taken a person and pulled them like saltwater taffy on an August afternoon. Its skin was inky black, so dark it almost seemed to suck in light from around it. It had all the basic human parts, but they were horribly wrong: Its face had no eyes or nose that she could see, just an oversized mouth full of black daggers; the long, thin hands ended not in fingers, but in slender, dangerously sharp needles.

But the worst thing about the demon wasn't how it looked. It was the fact that Abbie's bullets pinged off its hide like it was made of black diamonds. The creature turned its head toward them, a long acid-purple tongue drooling out of its mouth. Its toothy smile grew wider.

"Knew I shoulda taken those grenades Jenny offered me," Abbie muttered as she shoved her gun down the back of her jeans and reached for the sword slung over her back.

"Do you think blades will be more effective than bullets?" Crane asked, stepping up beside her, his own sword drawn.

"Dunno. I'm more worried about why it's just standing there." The creature wiggled its needle fingers; they brushed together and sounded like distant screams. "It  _is_ a demon, right? Don't think this chapel counts as consecrated ground any more."

"If it is not a demon, I shudder to think of what it is."

"You wanna change your bet?"

They smiled grimly at one another and, at some unspoken command, charged.

Abbie came in low and fast, bending almost double so she could shove her sword into the creature's gut and burst up with all her might. She'd expected the blade to glance off; even in her best-case scenario, she expected it to crack or shatter like rock. But her sword slid in like she was cutting paper, parting the skin easily. Giant globs of sticky, stinky black blood poured out.

Meanwhile, Crane had come in from the side, bringing a punishing blow where the creature's shoulder met its neck. He didn't manage to take the whole arm off, but it was dangling by a few threads.

Only once they'd done their damage did the creature move. It swung out both of its arms with crazy speed and raked its thin, terrible fingers across their flesh. It caught Crane on his side, four shallow, parallel marks of blood. For Abbie, the cuts curved around her left bicep like bracelets. Abbie cried out, expecting it to hurt, but all she felt was a rush of adrenaline.

The creature lowered its arms and cocked its head to one side.

Crane pressed a hand to his lightly bleeding stomach. "Are you you one of the Seven?"

The thing did not move, so Abbie shoved her sword through where its heart should be. Its sternum crunched in a way that made Abbie's heart race. She jerked her sword out.

"Miss Mills! Is that  _really_ necessary?" Crane asked peevishly. "There may be information we can glean from this demon."

"Don't be fucking stupid, Crane. It took a swipe at us. I'm not waiting for it to do it again." Thick black clots dripped from the end of her sword.

"As always, of course we should ride in like one of your  _cowboys_ and murder first, ask questions later," Crane snapped.

"Oh yeah, because your track record of talking to demons has given us such great results. You almost fucking killed yourself over one of these things!" Actually saying the words out loud sent a kind of ferocious joy flooding through her. She didn't even care that he flinched, that a bit of the light in his eyes winked out. She just cared that he got to hear the words that had been boiling inside her for so long. He  _deserved_ that pain.

"And you nearly gave yourself over to Envy for a false family, a modicum of recognition, and an item already in your possession," Crane sneered. Almost casually, he lashed out, smacking the flat of his sword against the creature's kneecap. The demon buckled and fell, its shoulders shaking silently.

"What the hell does that even mean?" Abbie threw her sword to the ground. "And it's pretty rich that you're bringing family into this shit; you've got so many daddy issues, you buried your head up George Washington's ass for two centuries." She reared back and struck the demon with a broad haymaker across the face. Its tongue lolled obscenely. Abbie's hand ached. She didn't care.

"Is it preferable to find a strong  _role model_ or to fill those empty places with a string of meaningless sexual partners?" Crane asked archly, like he was still that same fucking asshole she'd met on the first day he crawled out of his grave.

Abbie whirled toward him, her fist raised again, but she lost her balance, almost toppling to the floor. She felt New Year's Eve drunk, full of champagne bubbles and ready to burst. She caught herself on the altar with its shattered cross.

The arm she used to support herself was completely coated in blood. Red blood. Her blood. But there was so much more than should have come from the small scratches. Even as she watched, the cuts pumped blood like she'd slashed a major artery.

"Something's not right," she gasped.

"By all means, change the subject again. Heaven forbid you be  _honest_ with me, or with yourself, for that matter. Under no circumstances should you allow yourself to feel anything at all."

She told herself that a demon was making him say these things. She told herself that it wasn't even as cruel as the things she whispered to herself in the dark. She told herself it didn't matter. But none of that made it hurt any less.

"Crane, please shut up. You are  _bleeding_."

He drew his eyebrows together, but he did look down. His white shirt had turned to red, like Katrina's wedding gown. He pressed his hand to the gashes, but more blood oozed around his fingers.

The sound of a nail scraping down a chalkboard filled the air. They snapped their heads toward the demon: it was laughing.

Rage oozed inside her skull like someone had cracked an egg on her brain. It dripped down her spine and curled in her belly. She wanted to take this fucker and tear it limb from limb, until she was covered in its blood.

Beside her, Crane was straining forward, like it took everything he had not to run at the demon. His nostrils flared, and his cheeks were marked with a bright flush of anger over his pale, pale skin.

"It's doing this," she said. "The more we hurt it—the more we hurt each other—the more we bleed." She swayed unsteadily.

"Wrath," Crane breathed.

The demon sprang to its feet like Crane hadn't shattered its kneecap. And it waited.

"We can't beat it," Abbie said, glancing at the door. She thought they could make a run for it, but she was willing to bet the demon would spring to life the second they did. Maybe they could bust through the ugly stained glass windows?

"Don't be a defeatist," Crane said, voice sharp. He shook his head, clearly fighting Wrath's mojo. "We can't simply leave it here, even if it would permit us to." He gasped in pain, fingers tightening on his stomach.

"First we gotta do something about  _that._ Give me your coat."

He froze.

" _For fuck's sake!_ If you survive I will get you a new goddamn coat, and if you die, you'd better believe I will bury you in that rag." The world went spinny, and Abbie closed her eyes. When she opened them, Crane held the coat in his hands.

"Quickly," he said, "so that I may assist you, too."

"Thank you." It was hard to get the polite words out around the rage that still bubbled away inside her. She took the coat and carefully tore from around the hem, doing as little damage as she could. It was his safety blanket, after all. Maybe Katrina had made it for him; maybe his own mother had. She'd destroy it to save his life, but that didn't mean it didn't  _matter._

Crane raised his shirt, and she tied the scratchy wool around his slim waist. She tried to ignore the way his soft skin covered hard muscles. "Does that feel okay? Too tight?"

"Quite all right, thank you."

The monster groaned, a low rumble Abbie could feel in her bones. Fresh cuts developed across its skin like magic, releasing not more tar-like blood, but a red flood.

" _Fascinating._ The black substance was like an opossum feigning injury to escape predators. It was all a ruse to encourage us to continue striking, all while its true circulatory system remained unharmed," Crane said in an excited rush.

"Could we pay a little attention to my circulatory system, maybe?" She could feel her heart beating in her arm, could feel more blood struggling to well to the surface. She was no doctor, but she was pretty sure that was a bad sign.

Crane snapped back to himself. "Of course, of course, my apologies." The creature let out a metallic shriek that left every hair of her body on end. Blood poured out of its mouth. How could anyone even  _hold_ that much blood?

"That really pissed it off," she said as Crane tore off his sleeve ( _The better to preserve his precious coat,_ she thought with a sneer he didn't deserve).

"Anger cannot survive in the face of forgiveness and love. Platonic love," he quickly amended. His fingers were sure and gentle as he bound her arm.

He was right. That's how you defeat Wrath. With love. She closed her eyes. She could do this. Just not with him looking at her.

"You know that I do, right?" Abbie asked, trying to swallow around the massive lump that had suddenly appeared in her throat. She hoped he understood. That he wouldn't make her say the words, words she hadn't spoken since her mom died. "Maybe not...maybe not like Envy said, but-"

"Of course I do," he said, mercifully cutting her off before she could really embarrass herself. She opened her eyes just in time to see him smile, and maybe it was the blood loss talking, but that smile managed to be exactly half happy, half sad at the same time. "And you know I return the sentiment with all of my heart."

There was a squishy popping noise, and blood spattered across their faces. Where Wrath had stood, there were just chunks of skin and steaming pools of red and black.

They blinked at each other. "Did we just explode Wrath?" Abbie asked.

He started giggling, his laughter tinged with well-earned hysteria. "All I can think is how disappointed I am that we both lost our wager."

Maybe Abbie should still have been mad about the cruel (but true) words they'd flung at each other. Maybe she should be cringing in embarrassment over the hard (but true) words she'd said to kill Wrath. But right now, all she could do was dissolve into laughter beside him, until tears left clean trails on their filthy faces.

It was some time before they could stagger to the car, leaning heavily against each other, both convinced their fellow Witness needed just a little more help than they did.


	30. Kite in a Thunderstorm

Normally, Ichabod relished the brisk two mile walk between his cabin and the constabulary. Especially now with the dogwoods in bloom and violets dotting the hillsides, it was a lovely opportunity for reflection, the perfect beginning and ending to each day.

But no quantity of wildflowers could make the distance pleasant today. The gashes on his side where Wrath had rent his flesh throbbed, dulled only slightly by the  _aspirin_ Miss Mills had pressed upon him. His shoulder ached; he must have wrenched it during his futile battle with the demon. And the stubs of his lost toes tingled uncomfortably, a sure sign rain was on the horizon.

Life had been much easier within his ivory tower, he thought with a rueful smile. The greatest danger at Oxford had been paper cuts, or perhaps fisticuffs during a heated debate on the cause of the fall of Rome. It had been a good life, in truth, the life he had always thought he wanted.

Ichabod stepped over the tall curb that led into the sheriff department's massive parking lot. Good. He was quite ready for a bit of a sit down and a cup of-

"Yo, Crane."

At the sound of her voice, he squared his shoulders, straightened his coat, and lifted his chin. When he turned to face her, he found it both comforting and troubling that she, too, looked rather worse for wear. Most people never would have seen the slight pallor of her skin, the way her hair had not been flattened quite to her usual liking, the ginger way she held her arm, but to him, even the slightest change in her mien was worth noting.

"Good morning, Miss Mills. You look well, all things considered" he said sincerely.

She snorted. "That's a miracle, 'cause I feel like warmed-over dog food. I'm getting too old for this shit."

"Imagine how I feel," he said, lifting a brow.

That elicited a grin, which utterly transformed her weary face. "Always said you looked good for two hundred. Anyway, you wanna ride with me today? I'm giving truancy warnings, and I know how you love lecturing kids."

"I am tempted, truly." After all, any day spent in Miss Mills' company was likely to be interesting, even if their assigned task was not. And he did enjoy accompanying her during her rounds, meeting the common man of the twenty-first century. But today, duty called. They had stumbled blindly into their encounter with Wrath. Ichabod could not let them be so unarmed in the future. "I must beg your pardon, but I believe my place is in the archives, researching the remnants of the Seven."

She wrinkled her nose. "Mmm, I prefer the truants. But you have fun with that."

"Shall we reunite at supper time, so that you may regale me with tales of juvenile deliquincy, and I may inform you that I found nothing of interest?" he asked.

The grin faded, and her face grew guarded. It was as if she had closed a door just as he began to step over the threshold. "No," she said distantly. "I've got a thing. I mean, call me if something happens, but otherwise, I'll see you tomorrow. Okay?"

Most of the time when they did not sup together, it was because she dined with Brendan. But mention of his name tended to elicit either sly smiles or eye rolls as he peppered her with questions. Not this reticence. "You dine with Miss Jenny, then?"

"No. It's just...something I gotta do, and I'm not looking forward to it. But it's nothing. Don't sweat it." She smiled again, wholly for his benefit, and he returned the favor just as falsely.

"Then I shall not. Do be careful, Lieutenant."

She gave him a mocking salute with two fingers. He watched as she strode toward her patrol car; for a small woman, she walked as though she stood ten feet tall.

* * *

Gluttony would be a pernicious foe. It was not as if they could simply cease  _eating._ But how would the Sin manifest itself? He had paged through scores of books, every one of them with a dozen answers to the question. He was just considering a pause for his noontime meal—an irony he fully recognized—when there came a faint tapping at the door to the archives. Miss Wendy, the constabulary's receptionist, peeked into the room. "Mr. Crane?"

Finally, someone who adhered to polite forms of address. He would have returned the favor, but he did not know her last name. So he just smiled. "Yes?"

"I've got a package for you." She scuttled over and placed a small rectangular box before him.

"For me? Sent here?" Miss Mills had taught him about  _online shopping,_ and he sometimes used  _Amazon_ for sundry items—a decent straight razor and strop, good English tea, once a  _compact disc_ of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's violin sonatas—but he always had them delivered to the cabin, not here.

"Only one guy named Ichabod," she said. "Can you just sign for it?"

He signed the proffered piece of paper with a flourish. It was agony to wait until the woman had withdrawn to open his parcel, but he managed. There was his name, written in a bland, thoroughly modern hand. He carefully slit the edge of the box open with his knife. The interior was filled with odd plastic sheets, each of which contained hundreds of tiny pillows of air. He pinched one experimentally between his thumb and forefinger; it burst with a satisfying  _popping_ noise. Repeating the gesture again and again proved just as delightful, even as he reveled in the ingenuity of the packing material. But curiosity won over play and he hunted for the true contents of the box.

There, wrapped in the pillows, was a rough clay figurine, obviously sculpted by hand. It had the body of a crouching, spindly monkey and the face of a woman with a frozen, fixed grimace. It was impressively ugly, but its homeliness was rather endearing, in its way, not unlike the golem Katrina had made for Jeremy.

He could almost think her name without a stab of pain in his breast, but Jeremy never failed to illicit a twinge.

Ichabod let his fingers roam over the bumpy clay, searching for any sort of hidden compartment. Why on earth would someone send him such a thing? But no matter how hard he searched, the statue remained impenetrable and inscrutable. He examined every inch of the wrapping, box, and packaging for a letter or return address, but there, too, he was foiled.

Well. That was no matter. Certainly he had been sent this object for a reason—perhaps it held some clue to the whereabouts of the next Sin?-and he would discover why. He swept up the monkey and headed happily for the stacks.

* * *

"Crane? You're here late. Or maybe it's early at this point." Footsteps ceased beside his table, but he could not tear his eyes from the manuscript to acknowledge her. "Rough day?"

Perhaps he did look afright, hair pulling loose from its queue, his shirt untucked, but it seemed terribly trivial. "I did not expect to see you this evening."

"Yeah, well. Couldn't sleep. Guess that's going around." She settled one haunch on the edge of his table. "Did you find anything?"

"Nothing germane to you." He forced himself to look up, though his eyes struggled to focus on her more distant form after hours upon hours of reading. For a moment, he could not understand why she looked...different. Not bad, not wrong, just  _different._ It was then he realized that her face was scrubbed clean of makeup.

Odd.

"Then what's it, uh, germane to?" Dozens of books were splayed on the table before him; more surrounded his chair, awaiting their turn. The air was thick with the scent of paper, binding glue, and age. Miss Mills selected a book seemingly at random, glancing down at the spine. "Crane, this is a biography of Eleanor Roosevelt."

"A remarkable woman. Did you know she carried a pistol for her protection after the  _Ku Klux Klan_ put a bounty on her head? Truly inspiring. That, of course, led me to investigate the history of the Klan itself, which I strongly suspect has ties to the demonic world. And then-"

"So you think the KKK is connected to the Seven? Is that what you're running down now?" She knit her eyebrows together in perturbation.

"Not at all," he said cheerfully. "The Klan is filled with violent bunglers who mask their fear with hatred."

"Then why are you reading about all this?"

He pushed back from the table, blinking up at her. "I...I can't recall quite how I reached that thread of research." It had been so long since he began; his reading had taken several twists and turns.

"I guess you do have a lot of history to catch up on. Though you might wanna choose something more cheerful then the KKK. Maybe the Civil Rights movement," she suggested with a wane smile.

Something tugged at the edge of his mind, something he should ask or say, but before he could fully seize on it, a scrap of text caught his eye. "That's what it was! I was reading about Japanese  _oni,_ which led me to the Second World War which led me to Eleanor Roosevelt. I knew it would all make sense." He tugged the Lafcadio Hearn book toward him once more. "I thought perhaps our demons would hail from somewhere besides the Western European canon. After all, America is a melting pot, I am told."

"That we are." She slid off the table and pulled up a chair opposite him. "How can I help?"

He pushed several books toward her. He did not notice when, less than an hour later, she fell asleep, head pillowed on a copy of  _Paradise Lost._ Nor did he hear her take her leave the next morning.

* * *

Ichabod felt as if he were flying a kite in a thunderstorm. Ideas and connections crackled through him; with every word he read, more data points were connected in his mind. Scientific theories danced together; occult rituals suddenly burst into bright clarity. But just as quickly, the ideas were forgotten as he raced to the next bit of information. He sat with his nose, quite literally, in the books, as if the shorter distance would help him consume them more efficiently. He dashed from one to the next, throwing them aside as soon as he was content he had learned all he could.

In the back of his mind, there was a cold dread: no matter how hard he tried, he would never be able to read all these books. He would never learn all their secrets. It would never be enough.

"Crane.  _Crane._ Crane!"

He turned the page. He could not help but find Plato's views on evil overly simplistic and divorced from reality. A shame, since the man's political theories were inspired, in most ways. Even if his cave analogy was a tad overwrought.

The book was snatched from his hands. Miss Mills slammed it onto the table before him. Automatically, he reached for another, but she pinned his wrist to the table. "What the fuck is the matter with you?"

"I am researching. Unhand me."

"You have been here for two full days. I know you haven't slept. Have you eaten? Jesus, your fucking lips are cracked; have you even had anything to drink?" she demanded.

How could one be bothered with the petty concerns of the body when there was so much more to discover? He shrugged away her concerns and stood, flinging her arm away with little difficulty. "I am able to make my own decisions about how I spend my time, thank you."

"Not right now you aren't. Come on, I'm taking you home." She took three steps for the door before she realized he wasn't following, but had instead drifted to the bookcases once more.

There was a moment of blessed silence, and he gazed up at the collected wisdom of the ages before him.

"Look, I was gonna surprise you, but Brendan's meeting us for coffee in ten minutes. Let's get going."

"Perhaps another time. Send my regrets." He selected a copy of  _Daisen_ by one Martin Heidegger from the shelf. In the original German. Lovely. He did not even wait to resume his seat before he began reading.

"Now I know something's wrong," she muttered. "Can you just stop that for two minutes? Can we just talk?"

"What is there to discuss?"

"You said...you said this all started because of some Japanese demons. What got you on that kick? Why Japan?"

It was an interesting question; one intriguing enough to distract him from his reading for a brief moment. He cast his mind back and back; he had learned so much since that distant time. "Ah. Of course. It began with the  _nao._ " He shuffled amongst his papers, finally emerging victoriously with the hideous figurine. "Someone sent it to me. I wished to know what it was."

"Who sent it?"

He frowned. "That is one piece of information I still lack. More research is required."

"For fuck's sake, you aren't going to find that in a  _book_." She approached, but he was already turning back to  _Daisen._

In one smooth gesture, she seized the  _nao_ statue and hurled it to the ground. The clay shattered, unleashing a horrid banshee shriek. A sourceless wind roared from the shards, throwing books about the archive and nearly knocking him from his feet.

Then all was still. He dropped the book.

"Miss-" He sat down abruptly, his legs no longer trustworthy. His mouth was dry and tasted of feet; he could smell the stink of his own body. White spots danced before his eyes, yet he felt more clear-headed than he had in days. "What on earth happened?"

"The  _nao._ Tell me what you learned about it," she ordered.

"It-it's a Chinese monkey demon. It lives in the mountains, and it is-" He was truly the greatest fool in all the world. He had seen and understood so many things...and missed the most salient point of all. "It is known for its greed."

She inhaled sharply. "So it did that. Made you obsessed and greedy for...books?"

"Knowledge." He stared down at the crumbled remains of the demon. It was so small, so insignificant. "It judged my weakness well."

Miss Mills ground the shards beneath her heel until they turned to dust. "Yeah, well. Four down, three to go."

* * *

At the diner, Ichabod ploughed his way through a delectable dish of chicken and dumplings; Miss Mills nursed a cup of coffee.

"I must apologize," he said between bites. "For my failure to properly identify and halt the demon. You so ably understood Envy and its motives, while I..." The correct words did not present themselves, so he filled his mouth with another dumpling.

"Nothing to apologize for. I was planning on Envy. I wouldn't have seen Greed coming for either of us. Definitely not like  _that._ I had some Scrooge McDuck scenario in mind." She tore the paper from his straw into tiny, precise squares. "I guess we're gonna have to face them all."

It had been so easy for Greed to worm its way inside of him and twist even a noble attribute, like his love of learning, into a perversion. Without Miss Mills' intervention, he had little doubt he would have sat in that room forever until he became as dry and desiccated as the books he so loved.

Ichabod would rather fight a thousand Headless Horsemen than face one more of these abominations. The physical battles were arduous, yet simple. The war for their souls was far more treacherous, and left deep scars.

He set his fork down deliberately. "As long as we have your cool head, Miss Mills, I have no doubt we shall prevail." She waved a dismissive hand, and he smiled. "Though you must tell me—was your promise to introduce me to your Brendan all a ruse? I shudder to think I missed my only chance."

She considered lying to him. Oh, she had a talent for dissembling, true. But just before she fully committed to a lie, there was always a hesitation, a purse of her lips, a hardening around her eyes. He waited for her to decide.

"He's not my Brendan any more," she said quietly. The truth, then. "That's what I was doing the other night. I broke up with him. Not that we were ever  _together_ together."

"Oh. I'm sorry. He seemed to make you happy, in a way," Ichabod offered.

"He did. And that was the problem." She dashed the scraps of paper from the table. "Brendan's a really, really good guy. And he deserves someone he can really be with, not just somebody who wants to fuck him." She jutted her chin defiantly and met his eyes. She dared him to say the words that were on his tongue, to tell her that she, too, was worthy of someone she could really be with.

Instead, he asked, "And you are content with your decision?"

"It's what had to happen. What always had to happen." She shrugged, as if the contents of her heart were of no consequence. She stood, pulling a wad of bills from her pocket. "Let's get you home. You are in serious need of a shower."

"Oh, am I?" he said slyly, wrapping his right arm around her shoulders and pulling her into a half-hug. He could not embrace her properly as he wished to; the wound in his side would not permit it. Nor would her pride. But he could make her shriek with laughter as she pulled away from the smell of his unwashed body, and, for just a moment, he could remind her that she was never truly alone.


	31. Just There

Jenny turned up on Abbie's doorstep with a dusty bottle of tequila and a crooked grin. "Look what the doc gave me for finishing PT."

"Really? Your doctor?" Abbie asked. She still couldn't believe Jenny's miraculous recovery, that someone who had been that close to death was now mostly okay. She would always walk with a slight limp, and there were times when she couldn't find the words she was looking for. But mostly, Jenny was back to her old tricks.

"Yup. He gets me. Now call Crane, we're celebrating not being dead."

The girls taught Crane to squeeze limes and lick salt, then laughed as he coughed and sputtered. Laughter was the course of the evening; Jenny was on good behavior, too happy in her newly regained health to cause (much) trouble. Crane's face turned red  as he drank, and his hands never stopped moving, weaving scenes through the air even as his words turned cloudy. Jenny sat too close to him, their knees touching, her hand flitting to his thigh every now and then—so quick he didn't notice, but long enough that Jenny  _knew_ Abbie noticed.

Abbie chose to ignore it. Jenny was just trying to get a rise out of her, and the idea of the two of them together made Abbie snicker until both of them looked at her like she was crazy. But Abbie let it all roll off her back. She would not notice the way Crane watched her every time he made a joke to see if she laughed. She would not tell her sister to stop being a tease. She would just be content.

They drank and drank and drank until the world skipped like a record. The bottle never ran dry.

The tequila worm inched its way out, small, pathetic, and pickled. Then it spread massive wings and grew into a sleek serpent, like something carved onto an Aztec temple. Its head bumped against the ceiling, and it roared with boozy breath.

Abbie wasn't really sure how they defeated it; she had vague memories of a flamethrower made with a can of PAM and a lighter. Afterward, she fervently worshiped the porcelain god and cursed Gluttony while Crane and his indestructible liver held her hair.

* * *

 Sloth didn't even try to be sneaky.

"It doesn't matter, you know."

Abbie looked up from her pile of paperwork, squinting in the dull gloom of the abandoned police station. Irving's hangdog, still-incarcerated face looked back at her.

"Well. I know you aren't Lust," she said, putting her pen down and unfastening her holster strap.

"Irving tried so hard. Tried to be a good cop. Good dad. Good mentor to you. Look where it got him," the demon said.

"Let's cool it with the past tense--he's not dead yet. We're going to get him out." Abbie was tired of the mind games. Tired of trying to stay two steps ahead in seventeen different scenarios. Abbie was just  _tired._

"When're you gonna do that? Once you finish all this? Once you stop all of the Seven? Once you stop War?" The demon shook his head. "If you can't even free a cop, what chance do you have of defeating us? You can't do it, and deep down, you know that."

"Trust me, compared to navigating the legal system, beating you idiots has been a walk in the damn park." Her eyes searched "Irving's" face. God, she missed him.

"Just let it go, Abbie. Live your life. Be with your sister, with your...whatever Crane is," it said with a sly smile.

"My partner," Abbie said levelly.

"Uh huh," it said, and now it was a little  _too_ like Irving for comfort. "Be with them. Be  _normal._ Give up this pointless, painful fight. Nothing you do matters. You can't change what's coming."

"Probably," Abbie said. Then she drilled three blessed silver bullets into its head. It disappeared in a cyclone of smoke, leaving the smell of dead chrysanthemums.

She sank back in her chair with a sigh. Six and a half more years of this bullshit. She'd be in her mid-thirties by the time she was done; not old, but old enough that she should be thinking about things like kids and 401ks. Though, let's face it, Sloth was right: She'd probably be long dead before then.

Abbie shoved her dirty sidearm into the holster, flicked off the light, and headed home.

* * *

Abbie couldn't remember the last time she'd been in bed while the sun was up. Sunlight through the trees dappled a lacy pattern on her ceiling. The shadows lengthened as the day crept by, turning into fingers: fat Golem fingers, menacing Moloch fingers, spindly Sandman fingers.

It was almost three o'clock when she heard a rustling at the door. It took Crane longer than it should have to pick the lock; he cursed under his breath as he fought with the tumblers. She counted the minutes until until he came rushing into her bedroom, leading with his Glock. When he saw her in bed, one leg dangling toward the floor, he only looked more concerned. "Miss Mills? My sincerest apologies for barging in—especially when you are in a state of undress-but Miss Wendy said you had reported you were too ill to report for duty. I made attempts to reach your telephone, but-"

"I know. Didn't answer," she said. He looked weird without his long coat. She'd meant to ask those re-enactors fix it for him, after she'd torn it up for bandages, but it just hung in her closet, bloody and ragged. Another failure.

"Shall I call a doctor?" He started forward, tucking his firearm away. He reached for her, as if to check for fever, but she turned her back on him, pulling the covers close.

"No."

"Something is wrong." He strode around the bed and crouched down, looking up at her with earnest, exhausting worry. "Tell me what has happened."

"I'm tired, Crane. That's all."

"Sloth," he said right away. At least he was getting better at figuring this shit out. "It must be Sloth's influence. Did you receive a trinket, or meet a stranger? It is surely demonic activity that is causing this malaise-"

"I killed Sloth. It's gone. Check. Off the list." Had it really only been yesterday?

"Then...then you should be all right. Its power should abate, as it did with Wrath, or with Greed. Why do you still lie abed?"

He didn't get it. He never would. Crane was  _righteous._ He believed in things like God and destiny, and that the good guys always come out all right in the end. Which when you thought about it, it was pretty incredible. How optimistic did he have to be to maintain his faith after losing his wife, his son, and his whole world?

Abbie didn't have that kind of strength. Sloth wasn't mojoing her now, but that didn't mean it hadn't been right. She could do battle for another half-decade, gaining more scars and more gray hair, losing more people she loved. And at the end of it all, she was pretty sure the world was still going to hell.

"Because I don't know what we're fighting for. What the point is. How we could possibly win. And I'm just so goddamn tired." There were tears in her voice. She curled in on herself like a roly poly.

"Oh, Abbie," he breathed. Then everything was quiet. She'd expected him to rush in with reassurances and promises and "let's fight for God and puppies and the American way!" But there was nothing. She wondered if he'd left, off to call in Jenny for an emergency consultation.

The bed settled as he sat on the edge. Slowly, methodically, he removed first one boot, then the other. He stretched out on his side next to her, not touching, just...close. Just there.

She didn't want him to see her like this. She drew in a breath to tell him to get the fuck out of her bed, to leave her alone. But then she let the air out slowly and curled up more tightly.

She waited. And waited. She listened to the even sound of his breathing and struggled to find her own rhythm rather than inhaling and exhaling in time with him. The silence stretched between them, grew tight and brittle until she couldn't take it any more. "Just get it over with," she snapped.

"What's that?"

"Give me the rah-rah pep talk. Tell me that we're special and that together we can do anything. Give me all the lies about how everything's going to be all right."

"Is it a lie if I believe it?" he asked.

"After everything you've lost, you're too smart to believe that."

More silence. The heat of his body radiated against her back. His leather and sweat smell permeated her sheets, mixing with her own scent, threatening to wash hers away to nothingness.

"The only thing I believe in is you," he said quietly.

"Then I was wrong—you're dumber than a bag of hammers."

He gave a low rumble of a chuckle. "Believing in you has never steered me wrong. It was you who cupped me in the palm of her hand and drew me into a new world. It was you who rescued me from the grave. Time and again, you have identified and defeated our enemies whilst I ran about like a right idiot. God did not save me in those moments. You did."

"I didn't do anything that someone else couldn't have done. Jenny. Katrina. Anyone would have been better," she protested.

"Miss Jenny would have been utterly consumed by Wrath. And Katrina, may God bless her soul, would have given in to Envy for the sake of our family. You were chosen for your strength."

"I'm not strong. I'm the girl who ran." Tears scalded down her cheeks and pattered onto the pillow. "I didn't want this life then. And I don't want it now."

"I know. And for your sake, I am so sorry this cup was handed to you. But selfishly, I am so very, very glad."

Abbie wiped her smudgy cheeks and forced herself to turn to face him. He lay on his side, his head pillowed on one arm. She almost turned right back around; he was too close. "Don't lie to me, Crane. Deep in your heart of hearts, do you think we can save the world?" She laughed; it sounded so fucking stupid. "That it's even worth saving?"

"I believe our battle will be hard fought. There will come many days when we both doubt ourselves; when we ask God why He would choose us and then turn His back upon us. We will both lose more than we thought possible."

"This is really unhelpful."

"And I believe that in six and a half year's time, all our sacrifices will be rewarded when there is still a glorious world filled with good people, freedom, and of course, donut holes." He smiled at her with no pretense, and something clenched deep in her stomach.

"Glad you have your priorities in order, Crane," she said, even as she let herself smile back. Just a little. She wished she could see herself as he saw her. But...well, Crane  _was_ smart. If he saw strength in her, maybe she had more than she thought. "I guess...I guess I should get up. There's so much I should have done today." She started to swing one leg to the floor, but Crane pressed a hand against her shoulder.

"You've more than earned one day of rest. It can all wait until tomorrow."

She eased herself back down. "You gonna play hooky with me, too?"

He eyed her warily. "Is that another drinking game? Because after our game of 'kings' with Miss Jenny, I fear I am ill-prepared for-"

"Just take the day off with me. A little sloth isn't a bad thing, right?"

He relaxed. "All things in moderation."

They stayed in bed all day. They talked about music, about history, about their childhoods. They talked about anything and everything except Armageddon. Crane only ventured out of bed long enough to make grilled cheese sandwiches and pour them tall glasses of milk; they ate in bed and ignored the crumbs. The shadows merged and night fell.

Abbie excused herself to the bathroom; when she came back, Crane was asleep, stretched out straight as a board on his side. She hovered uncertainly. She should probably crash on the couch; she didn't want him to feel weird about this in the morning. But they  _had_ spent all day in bed together, and they were only sleeping. She crawled under the covers and turned out the light.

The next morning, Abbie found herself molded against his back, her chin tucked against the curve of his neck and one arm draped over his chest like it belonged there. He snored in uneven bursts, stirring only a little as she snuck out of bed.

She was touch hungry, she told herself. It didn't matter that it was  _Crane.,_  just that it was a warm body.And she wasn't responsible for what she did while she was asleep anyway. As she climbed into a boiling hot shower, and she hoped like hell that he wouldn't remember any of this.

Because they only had one Sin left.


	32. Ichabod

The abandoned hotel was suffused with ineffable sadness. Now, it was merely a discrete location for  _ladies of the night_ to bring their  _beaux,_ but oh, it must have been grand once, with its sweeping staircase, gilt accents, and towering ceilings. But now the treads were shattered, the gilt peeled away like a rash, and black mold crawled above their heads.

"Not the sexiest place I've ever seen," Miss Mills said, nudging a broken beer bottle with the toe of her boot. "But that doesn't mean we shouldn't be on our guard."

"Thank you for clarifying that point  _yet again._ Would you like to reiterate the entire list of ways we might die by Lust's hand? Shall we discuss the risks of priapism once more, or would you care to expound upon your theories regarding demonic sexually transmitted diseases?" His tone was sharp, but God's teeth, the lieutenant had been speaking for  _days_  about all the possible traps Lust might have in store for them. He was quite ready to face the cursed thing and be done with it.

"Don't get pissy with me. I still think you should've stayed at home. Jenny would have been fine as backup," she insisted.

"Twaddle," he said flatly. As if by going together, they would become slaves to Lust's urges. They had gone 'round and 'round on the issue, and eventually she had begrudgingly accepted that in this, as in all things, they would be partners. They were not animals. They would fight whatever Lust had in store, as they had sucessfully defeated the previous Sins.

What Ichabod couldn't understand was why Miss Mills was so rattled by Lust's impending arrival. He had never before met a woman who was so utterly at ease in her own body, who was so confident and enthusiastic in pursuing sexual activity. It was all rather alien to him, but he admired the way she knew precisely what she wanted. She had—he hoped—never found censure from him.

Perhaps, then, it was not Lust itself she feared, but Lust in his presence. He had awoken two nights previous to find her pressed to his back, her arms strong, her bosom soft. Even in sleep, she did not reach for comfort, did not slide beneath his arms; rather, she protected him, spreading about him like a shield. Her presence had been thoroughly unexpected...and just as unexpectedly, welcome. With her beside him, he drifted back into a sweet sleep.

She fled before he awoke again, and he knew there would be no discussion of the matter. She would claim it had been nothing, a trifle, an accident. Or perhaps she would even lie and say no such event had occurred. Still, Ichabod was unsure if their chaste embrace qualified as Lust or...something far more complicated indeed.

"Let's just get this over with," she muttered. Ichabod forcibly restrained himself from making a ribald riposte.

They combed the halls, finding only empty rooms filled with papery hornets' nests and used condoms, which were now made with some odd, rubbery substance rather than honest linen or intestine. Ichabod took point, leading the way while the lieutenant guarded his back. He pulled open a door and stepped into what appeared to be a perfectly normal corridor, complete with shredded carpets and a fallen chandelier. But as soon as Miss Mills stepped inside and the door closed, the room turned to utter darkness. Even their flashlights flickered out.

They tensed as the gentle darkness pressed around them, waiting. Then, slowly, light began to return. It seemed to emanate from their very skin, a nimbus of luminescence that permitted Ichabod to dimly discern his partner. Her faint outline glowed, giving an angelic sheen to her frightened features.

The pair did what they always did when danger beckoned: they reached for one another. Only the very tips of their fingers brushed, but at once he yelped, she hissed, and they both skittered apart. They panted in the darkness, breath forced out in raspy staccato beats.

It was as if she had touched not his hand, but another,  _considerably more delicate_ portion of his anatomy. Every bit of his flesh crackled with unbridled pleasure. His length immediately sprung to half-attention, the sudden engorgement nearly painful.

All from a single, simple touch.

His tongue rasped across his dry lips. He hoped she would not hear the strain in his voice. "Miss-"

"I'm good," she said brusquely. "Be better when we find a way out of this fucking place. See if you can find the door."

Of course. Good, practical advice. Advice that did not require close proximity. Marvelous.

They groped in the blackness. They moved opposite each other, carefully, and Ichabod focused his full attention on searching for any seam of light or variation in the soft, plush texture of the walls. The corridor, somehow, had transformed into a small chamber. It was cramped enough to make his stomach clench, but he resolutely pushed the old fears aside. There were too many  _new_ fears to tend to; he had no time to indulge his claustrophobia.

But they would be fine. He believed that fervently. God would not tempt them beyond what they could endure, and there was always a way out of the Sins' traps, if only they were clever enough to see them. Though as much as it pained him to admit it, perhaps she had been correct and Miss Jenny would have made a better companion for this undertaking.

Rather too late now.

Miss Mills' hip knocked against his thigh, and even through the thick fabric of their trousers, another jolt of pleasure jittered through him. He looked down at her in alarm. "I thought you were on the other side of the room."

"I was."

An icy hailstone took residence in the pit of his belly. He strode away with three long, deliberate steps, until he _should_ have reached the opposite wall. Instead, he came to rest beside her again, their arms brushing. Miss Mills sighed, low and deep.

That sigh did not help his current condition.

"This is bullshit." Miss Mills jerked away, her arms folding hard across her chest as she shouted into the darkness. "Come on out. Let's get this over with. We know we're gonna throw down eventually, so let's get to it, you peckerwood."

Ichabod waited, half convinced Lust, in the guise of Pan or Eros, might undulate from the shadows. "I doubt Lust will present itself quite so brazenly," he said after a time. "It may not present us with a target we can simply shoot."

"Hey, that worked on a surprising number of Sins."

"Indeed, but not all."

She turned toward him, and then somehow, without seeming to move, she was pressed against his chest, drawn inexorably by whatever magic indwelt the room. Her head seemed to fit perfectly against the hollow of his throat, her breath becoming a tender lover's caress. And try as he might, he could not ignore the ripeness of her breasts, nor her peaked nipples. Just as, to his deep embarrassment, he was sure she could not ignore his intense need. Every nerve of his body was aflame.

They spun apart, each taking refuge in an opposite corner, straining for air.

"How do we out think it, Crane? What's your solution?" she gasped, placing one foot in front of the other and squeezing her thighs together tightly.

Not nearly enough blood was reaching his brain to consider the question as fully as he ought. He attempted to make a surreptitious adjustment, but even the slightest touch of his hand was too much. He abandoned the effort. "We...we defeated Wrath by demonstrating the opposite virtue. Instead of anger, we showed love."

"Your solution is to just sit here and  _not_ have sex?"

"I believe that is part—an important part—of the equation." She caught her lower lip between her teeth, and he quite lost his train of thought. He gave himself a firm shake. "But more must be required. The opposite of Lust is  _Castitas,_ or-"

"Chastity. I read the Wikipedia article too," she said.

"Yes, but the term in its current connotation is too limiting. Chastity still requires love, but a full and complete love, one which is not merely reliant upon the base urges of the flesh. It is sometimes known as courtly love, or even brotherly love."

"Okay, so we've got that, right? You and me. That's kind of our whole deal. What's the problem?" Her voice was lower than its usual timbre, rich and full and seeming to reverberate through his body like a plucked bowstring. He wondered if it was the next stage of Lust's assault, and if his own voice would have the same effect.

"It also means honesty. True  _Castitas_ requires complete and utter honesty between two partners," he said softly.

Whenever Ichabod deciphered a code or solved a puzzle, the solution never came to him in a bolt. It came between one breath in the next, an obvious conclusion based on all the data at his disposal. He realized he loved Abbie in the same way. It was merely a natural evolution based on the winding, circuitous road that had brought them here.

What he felt for her was not merely the  _philia_ of friendship, nor the crushing  _eros_ of Lust's spell. Yes, it was both of those things, but shot through it all was  _agape,_ the love that gives all and expects nothing, the love that encompasses and endures in the face of the greatest hardship. The love he had shared—and would always share—with Katrina.

And now, just as wholly, with  _her_.

She was quite unaware of his realization, too locked in the terror of facing whatever truth lurked within her own heart. Her breath hitched. "So it's all a trap. This one isn't meant to kill us. We aren't going to fuck each other to death, or get demon syphilis. They just want to tear us apart. That's all this is."

"Why would the truth tear us asunder?" He could not help himself—he took a step toward her. Just a small one. "When you spoke truly of your experiences in the wood, you found freedom."

She shook her head, her small hands balling into fists at her side. "There's nothing to say." The words wounded him, the pain cutting through the pleasurable haze like an arrow. But the very turmoil roiling within her indicated far more than  _nothing._

Another half-step. He was close enough to smell her, the notes of amber in her perfume, and beneath it, something spicy and wild and utterly familiar. "Then perhaps it is I who should speak truth."

She glowered. "What're you gonna say, huh? That you love me? No shit. I love you, too. It's not news to either of us. We're there for each other in every way that counts—when we're happy, when we're sad, when we need to be told we're fucking idiots, we do that for each other."

The word  _love_ bristled with barbs, placating him with the inadequate word even as she withdrew, reinforcing the barriers about her heart."Why do you speak of love as though it were a pox?"

"Because if you keep talking—keep acting—like this, you'll ruin everything. We'll bury what makes  _us_ great under jealousy and bullshit and stupid arguments like this." She paused for breath, but then the fight seemed to drain from her. She slumped against the wall, fingers twining through her hair. "I can't risk what we've got. It's better—it's  _safer—_ if we're just happy with what we have."

He wanted to laugh. The woman who threw herself headlong into danger, who used her tiny size to her tremendous advantage, who taunted demons, that woman was concerned with the  _safety_ of her heart. But he did not laugh. He needed to understand her fear. If, truly, she did not return his affections, he would speak of it no more. He would not permit his eyes to linger on her lips, would no longer reach for her hand. But he would not leave the question unasked.

"Have you ever been  _in_  love?" He stressed the preposition twice as long as necessary.

She could not look him in the eye; she seemed fixated on his left ear. "Ichabod," she said. His Christian name was plea, prayer, and answer on her lips.

"Then of course you are afraid," he said as gently as he knew how. If only he could hold her in his arms, if only he could show her in deed as well as word that he would treasure her. But he would not manipulate her with Lust's cruelty, so he could only speak true. "To fall in love is to watch as your entire world falls away, to place your trust in one another as you plunge into the unknown. But once you make that dizzying leap of faith, you realize that what you truly fear is the life you left behind."

Ichabod had made this jump before, had turned his back on his country and his best friend in the name of love. He regretted nothing. Yet loving Abbie would carry its own risks. It would mean accepting, once and for all, that he was now a man of the twenty-first century. It would mean relinquishing everything of the life he once knew, including Katrina.

It was an eternity before she could meet his eyes, large and shining in the glow of the room. She reached up with a hand—it trembled—and placed it against the side of his neck, her thumb just stroking the line of his jaw. For a moment, Ichabod was sure he would expire from the force of the sensations that crashed over him, and yet he turned his face into her palm, refusing to break their connection.

"I can't do this," she said. "I'm not-" Her face tightened as if she would weep, but the moment passed and her eyes turned to steel. "I just can't. I'm sorry."

Behind them, a door creaked open. Dying twilight spilled across the floor, and she pulled away from him, eyes still locked.

"Honesty saves the day," she said desolately. She moved into the light.

His knees were aspic; his heart was lead. He took a step to follow her, but the instant her foot crossed the threshold, the door slammed.

For endless heartbeats, he was alone in the darkness, trapped in a cyclone of loss and fear.

Until a voice, soft and sweet, emerged from the shadows.

"Did you forget about me?" Katrina asked. She shimmered into being like a mirage in a parched desert, as beautiful as she had been the day he laid her to rest. "And so soon?"

Somehow, he found his tongue. "Katrina has crossed to the shores of Paradise. Whatever foul creature you may be, you are not she," he said. He prayed with all his soul that it was true.

"Oh, my love, of course I am not your  _dearly departed_ wife." The glow from her skin intensified, revealing eyes as black as jet. "I am Envy. After your partner ran from my presence without so much as a by-your-leave, I thought it only fair to give you a turn, Ichabod Crane."


	33. Shadows

There should have been a wall between them. A cracked wall with rotting wallpaper covered in cabbage roses, but still, a solid wall. But it was gone, and Abbie could see everything. Hear everything. Crane's agonized face as he was forced to interact with this disgusting approximation of his dead wife. Envy's mocking purr. But when Abbie tried to walk toward them, she was stopped by something warm, solid, and slightly springy. When she shot at it, her bullets disappeared with a disgusting  _slurp._ When she bellowed his name, neither demon nor man twitched.

Her fault. This was all her fault. She'd left Envy alive, hadn't been strong enough to finish the job. And now Crane, exhausted and dejected, had to face it all alone. On a normal day, she had no doubt that he'd tell Envy to shove it. But this was not a normal fucking day.

"So it was you all along," Crane accused. "Lust was a red herring."

"Not at all. You conquered Lust ably. Congratulations, I suppose." The demon shrugged, Katrina's milk-pale shoulders rising and falling. "Lust, Greed, Gluttony, they all are but branches of the same tree. Defeating them is of little consequence."

"Then defeating you should be just as inconsequential. Begone—there is nothing you can offer me." His voice was as haughty as ever, but Abbie heard the deep strain. She knew Envy would, too. She began to circle the room. There had to be a chink in the armor, some way she could bust through and...

And what? How could Abbie help him? She hadn't been able to even muster a fight against Envy; she'd turned tail and run away. Again. Like always. But she wasn't going to sit by and watch as some fuckface wearing his dead wife's meatsuit tormented him. Not happening.

"You have no secrets from me, Ichabod. You  _thirst_ for so many, many things. Knowledge. Peace." Envy oozed over him, one hand sliding down his chest to grasp the completely unignorable bulge in the front of Crane's pants. "Release."

Abbie threw herself against the barrier, but bounced off like a Wonderball.

Crane's face contorted, some awful expression between pain and loss and need. He flung the demon back with a raised forearm. "I would sooner cut the thing off and live my days as a eunuch than let you befoul my body."

Envy rang out with Katrina's high, tinkling bell of a laugh. "Oh, do not give me such lovely ideas!"

"Where is Miss Mills? Is one of your abhorrent siblings tormenting her at this moment?" Crane asked, his eyes cutting to where the door had been. He tugged his shirt down.

"I'm here. I'm with you. You're not alone," she said, not giving a flying fuck if he could hear her or not. Some stupid, crazy part of her believed he could feel it. "You can do this. Stay mad, Crane. Stay mad." She continued to circle the room, but wherever she went, she just got new perspectives on the horrible scene.

"Do you truly care? After she so cruelly rebuffed you? And you have been so wondrously kind to her. Far more than she deserves. You have weathered her cowardice, her tantrums, her pathetic terror of her own feelings."

Abbie gritted her teeth and pulled the knife from her belt. This performance was as much for her benefit as it was for Crane's. They knew she was watching; they  _wanted_ her to watch. Even if they couldn't tempt Crane, they knew they could still hurt her, confirm all the horrible truths she believed about herself. But right now, the ploy just pissed her the fuck off. She plunged her knife into the barrier, and jerked it hard to the side, but it was like cutting through Jell-O. When she pulled the knife free, the cut disappeared seamlessly.

"She has weathered an equal number of  _my_ tantrums and terrors. She owes me nothing," Crane said. His back was straight as a ramrod, but his hands twitched like spiders at his side.

"You got this. Envy isn't your sin, remember? Use your Pride against it. You are Ichabod fucking Crane—what could it ever offer you?" Abbie called into the void.

"But you want her. You  _love_ her," Envy said, all wide eyes and innocence, one fair hand resting on her breast. "And you deserve to be happy." Shadows unfurled from the corners of the room, swirling and churning until they formed dark doppelgangers _._ A spectral Abbie wrapped her legs around a ghostly Crane. He pressed her against the wall, hips thrusting, long-fingered hands tangled in her hair.

The real Crane flushed deeply. He spun away on one heel, turning his back on the scene. "You do not help your case, demon. Whatever I feel for her, it is not to be perverted for your amusement," he said, all righteous indignation.

But Abbie couldn't tear her eyes away as they pushed and pulled against each other, as they gasped and whimpered, as they both shuddered and clutched one another, whispering  _Abbie, oh Abbie,_ and  _Goddamn, Ichabod,_ and murmuring soft, sweet endearments as they drifted back to earth.

She wondered what would happen if the scene kept playing, spinning off into its logical conclusion. Would they cuddle together, his long arms wrapped too tightly around her? Would he pull her so close that all she could do was breathe him in, more and more, until there was less and less of her? Would he cook her breakfast and make small talk, all while she thought only of escaping, of disappearing back to her place, where she could be free again? Could be herself again?

"Ah, but of course. You are no man of the flesh, are you? How very wrong of me to impugn your intentions, good sir," Envy said earnestly. "You yearn for her touch, but you will only have her body if you can have all of her no? Her heart, her mind, perhaps even her soul."

The shadows melted, curdled, and reformed in front of Crane. This time, they both wore clothes, so at least they had that going for them. They walked side by side, just the backs of their hands brushing together. Something familiar twinged in her mind—she'd seen this before. Shadow Abbie said something she couldn't hear, they both laughed, and it hit her: this was the same vision Envy had given her.

That fucker was  _recycling_ its temptations.

But then something changed. In a fluid, graceful motion, "Crane" went down on one knee. He smiled, that bright and childlike smile that even now made her feel like butterflies were going to bust out of her stomach  _Alien_ -style. But—he couldn't really be doing this. Was this really what he saw as their future? That she would become his wife, another Mrs. Crane? And then what—a house, a white picket fence? Jesus, a  _kid_?

"Crane. You really doing this?" her shadow self said, eerily echoing her thoughts. The fake Abbie was trying so, so hard to be unimpressed, but she twined her fingers around his, and a faint smile broke through.

"I understand that it is the present custom for a man to fall to his knees and beseech the woman he loves to spend the rest of her days with him." A brow arched upward. "Was I told falsely?"

"Nope. You were told right. But we never did things the customary way." Shadow Abbie knelt on the ground in front of him. She clasped his other hand tightly. "You don't have to beseech me. I love you. Stupidly, insanely, I do. So let's do this."

"Ever the romantic," he said with a fond roll of his eyes. He bent down; she leaned up. Their lips nearly met in the middle, and-

The real Crane dashed a hand through the shadows; they curled away from his touch and retreated to the corners, waiting. "You know nothing of my desires. Cease this charade at once."

Envy cocked its head to the side, looking at Crane with intense interest. "Knowing your desires is my  _raison d'être,_ Ichabod. Since the moment she first threatened to shoot you, you have been walking this road. To her. I can smooth your path. I can give you what you most desire."

Abbie's veins turned to ice. If Crane said yes, if he gave in, what would happen to her? Would she become some Stepford wife, completely under Envy's control? Or would she just...disappear, replaced by some demon who looked like her, sounded like her, but was better than her, was who Crane thought she was, who he needed her to be?

"I do not wish a smooth path. I wish a true one," Crane said.

Abbie thawed. Just a little.

Envy ran a small, pink tongue along its lower lip. It smiled. "Ah, then let me give you  _truth,_ Ichabod. Your true love." The demon glanced slyly to the side, and Abbie swore the demon looked right at her. "Because Katrina will always hold your heart, will she not? Such a tragic tale, really--torn from your arms after only a few blissful months of matrimony. And your son—he became a great man, a great leader, but you were deprived of his love. You never got to see him grow. But I can give you those days, Ichabod. All of them."

The shadows swarmed. Katrina, as beautiful and peaceful as the Virgin Mary, gazed down at the swaddled baby in her arms with adoration. Crane stood beside them, his face transfixed with joy. His wife placed the baby into his own arms, and he pressed his lips against the child's forehead, his face heartbreaking in its happiness. Katrina leaned her head against his shoulder.

This time, Crane did not—or could not—look away.

This was it. This was really what he wanted. He wanted his life back—a life that could never include her. Even if she were brave enough to love stupidly and insanely, part of him would always be looking back. At Katrina. At Jeremy. And she could never be a part of that.

"Your life should have been so very different, Ichabod," Envy crooned. "So much better."

The shadows reformed. Crane and a young boy, maybe ten, with Crane's straight nose and Katrina's curls, held practice swords, exactly like the ones he had made for her. Slowly, they performed familiar drills, blocking high, blocking middle, blocking low. Crane taught his son with patience and laughter.

The real Crane watched in silence.

"Tell me what you desire, Ichabod. The life you were meant to have? Or the future you so desperately want? Let me give it to you. You need only say the words," Envy said.

He did not look away from the flickering shadows. "Truly, all I must do is speak my desire? And you are bound to grant it?"

"Yes. This is your reward, Ichabod. This is what you deserve."

"It's not real. Envy can't give you that—it can't change the past. It sure as shit isn't going to turn its boss back into a kid so you can raise him. Think, Crane. You're smarter than this," Abbie said. She knew it was pointless. That he couldn't hear her. That if she were in his shoes, there was no way she could resist that kind of happiness. And he didn't have the option to run.

"What I desire..." Crane trailed off, staring at his beautiful lie of a son. Abbie pressed against the barrier, imagining she was somehow pushing strength toward him. Will. Help. He clasped his hands behind his back and looked at Envy. "What I desire is for you and your six ill-begotten brethren to slither back to whatever dank corner of hell birthed you. I wish you to be tormented and gutted for all eternity, until the sky falls into the sea." His lip curled. " _That_ is what I desire above all else."

Abbie hooted in victory, rumbling her hands against the barrier. "Yes! You tell that fuckhead!"

Envy pursed her lips. "Yes, terribly clever. You must be so pleased with yourself. We shall go. But you know we live inside of you. Always. And inside of her. And we will be with you when you face War. We shall harry you, we shall torment you, we shall bring you doubt and fear and grief. And when War has conquered you, oh, what fun we will have then."

"I have stated my desires," Crane said coldly. "Yet still you prattle on."

There was no dramatic exit; no explosion or crashing shadows. In between one blink and the next, the wall with its ugly paper appeared, solid as ever. More importantly, so did the door. She tore it open. Crane stood in the hallway they had first seen, back before the room became a torture chamber, amidst shards of glass and splintered furniture. His head hung low.

Before today, she would have run to him. Thumped him on the back and pulled him into a hug. Now, she stopped just inside the door, hovering uncertainly. "Crane?" she asked.

He didn't answer right away. He just breathed, just gathered the scattered pieces of himself back together. But finally, he lifted his head, rolled his shoulders back, and forced a smile. "Ah. Miss Mills. I am pleased to see you looking so well. Did you, too, receive a visit from Envy?"

"Just shared yours," she lied. Part of her wanted...it didn't matter. None of it did. If Envy wanted to push them together, wasn't that proof she should pull back? Didn't that mean she was right to stay with what was safe, with what she knew?

"My apologies you had to see that. I would not have wished it so," he said softly.

Which part did he mean? The sex? That was the least of it. But she just shrugged. "No big. That's what Envy does. Are  _you_  okay?"

He was silent for more long moments, avoiding her eyes. "I believe I wish to go home," he said after a while.

"Yeah, of course. We'll get out of here. But you didn't answer the question." But then, she hadn't really asked the right question. What she meant was, "are  _we_ okay?"

The corners of his mouth moved upward into some semblance of a smile. "Of course I am. We achieved our goal. Congratulations, Miss Mills. We have conquered the Seven."

They picked their way out of the crumbling hotel. She should tell him she was proud of him. That he'd handled that like a champ. She wanted to ask him what he had meant when he said Envy didn't know anything about his desires. How he could continue to trust his heart to other people after he had lost so much. But all the words jammed together inside of her, shouldering against each other until none could make their way out.

They drove home in silence, only speaking to exchange mumbled goodbyes and vague promises to see each other tomorrow. She went to her empty apartment and brought herself to a joyless, perfunctory orgasm. She slept and dreamed of shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise we're getting there, guys. Darkest before the dawn and all that. Thanks for sticking with me.


	34. Soar or Splatter

His thoughts boiled and writhed like a mass of snakes, twisting together until his head was full to bursting. Sleep evaded him. He sought solace with old friends, but even books could offer little comfort this night. The words fled the moment his eyes passed over them, turning familiar words—from the Bible, from Chaucer, from Locke—into meaningless scratches.

Unable to sit in silence with his roiling mind, he activated the  _television_ using a small wand. It filled the room with reassuring noise and flickering light, and he slumped gratefully onto the settle. He permitted the chatter to wrap around him, insulating him from the most vicious and persistent of his thoughts. What images the box showed him was of little consequence—an overwrought melodrama, a treatise on the  _meerkat,_ a competition in which amateur singers warbled with varying degrees of competency.

He stumbled across a baseball game, then mashed buttons until it disappeared.

And so the hours slunk by.

When the shadows began to lengthen, Ichabod silenced the television. He washed and dressed slowly, every motion deliberate, his entire being focused upon the simple actions, for it was simpler to consider the shine of his boots than the destination before him. Then, as he always knew he must, he set out for Miss Mills' home.

For once, Ichabod had no charted course of action. What he would say, what he would do, what he  _wanted,_ it was all fog. But if Ichabod knew anything with certainty now, he knew that their fates were ineluctably linked, and that he could not long avoid her. Nor she him. They must discern the next steps they would take—or find a way to return to the status quo.

He reached her door and rapped thrice.

It took several moments, but a chain rattled, the bolt slid free, and the door opened. She did not throw it wide, did not grant him entrance. She rested her cheek on the side of the door. "How're you doin'?" she asked.

"Very well, thank you. And how does this day find you?"

"I'm good," she said, returning his lies.

That was rather as far as Ichabod had planned this  _tête-à-tête_ , and Miss Mills did not seem inclined to carry the conversational burden. Yet he could not crawl back to his hole, attempt to smother his thoughts under meaningless pablum or even throw himself into research for the day he must do battle against his son.

He needed her friendship now more than ever.

"Will you take the air with me?" he asked. "The day is fine; the sun is warm. It would be pleasant to ramble beside the river, perhaps."

She inhaled. "Crane, I'm not ready to talk yet. I know that's shitty and I know it's not fair to you, and I'm sorry about that, but-"

"Then it is fortunate that perambulation requires no speech." In truth, perhaps he, too, was not yet prepared to discuss yesterday's temptations. But nor could he be alone. "Walk with me. Please."

Only then did she exhale the breath she had drawn. "Yeah. Okay." She disappeared from the door for a moment, then reappeared, tucking something—her pistol, he realized—into the back of her trousers. She locked her door, and they set off.

Miss Mills walked briskly, as ever, requiring him to trot to keep apace. Her hands were jammed firmly into her pockets, her shoulders high and tight. His own form felt similarly stiff, as if he strained to keep himself apart from her, but he did not intrude. He wondered if it would be forever thus between them now, eternally separated by unsaid words and unfelt desires.

They soon left the huddle of apartments and strode across a broad field. Tall grass whisked against her knees and his calves. Mourning doves cooed a requiem whilst chattering blue jays scolded their solemnity.

The pleasant repetition of walking helped unsnarl his thoughts. Trepidatiously, he permitted himself to remember yesterday. It was all there, branded upon his eidetic mind with excruciating detail. She had been so certain that the truth would tear them apart—even before they defined what that truth was. He must conclude, then, that she did harbor feelings of love. As he did, deeply and ardently.

He supposed there was a certain satisfaction in that. To know that he was loved by one person who still trod this earth. And yet, how to express and sustain that love seemed to utterly baffle her.

They tacked east, toward the Pocantico River. Neither of them followed; nor did either lead. And yet they moved as one. Miss Mills had withdrawn her hands, her body relaxing as they fell into a rhythm that felt almost familiar and natural. They walked nearer now, inexorable as magnets.

In that moment with Lust, Ichabod had been utterly ready to devote his life, his whole life, to her. But then there appeared the most pernicious Sin of all, and his certainty crumbled. He still loved Katrina, just as deeply and just as ardently. And he would, for every moment of every day as long as he lived.

But Katrina had charged him, with her last breath, to love. Had she seen some nascent spark between the Witnesses? Or had she simply known, as had her Creator, that it was not good for man to be alone?

Ichabod was not sure his heart could bear the glorious burden of loving them both. And yet, loving them was like the night and the day. Neither was greater than the other; man needs the sun to grow and the moon to inspire. And just as the moon reflects light from its sister, he could only love Miss Mills now because he had first loved Katrina, had been taught what it meant to surrender to another.

Miss Mills had never had such a teacher.

The river unfurled before them, turgid and unhurried as it wended its way through the trees. They stopped on its verdant bank. They stood so near, the backs of their hands nearly brushed.

"This is what Envy showed me," she said. "This is what it said I wanted." He expected her to pull away, but she was motionless, staring over the waters.

Words bubbled to his lips. Explanations, theories about why Envy had behaved thusly. Attempts to explain that just because Envy had presented such a future did not mean it was evil, only that the demon had meant to achieve that future through nefarious means. And yet, he fought back the deluge of words and remained silent. It was not his place to dictate or change her feelings, whatever they might be.

She seemed disinclined to elaborate on the idea, instead settling herself on the river bank, her feet dangling over the water. He took his place beside her. The river rolled on.

"You ever wonder if it's not real?" she said after a time.

"Beg pardon?" His voice was rough with disuse.

"If our bond is fake. If we only feel...whatever we feel, because we're Witnesses. That God or some other fucker makes us  _click_ because it fits His apocalypse game plan." She plucked a stone from the ground beside her and heaved it into the water below. It sank with a soft  _plunk._

"I have considered the possibility that our bond is externally imposed. But I find it more probable we were selected because God or ' _some other fucker_ ' knew we would complement one another. That I waited two hundred and thirty-two years because the powers that be knew that one day, you would be born. And that together, we would do wondrous things."

She snorted; he did not know what that meant. She drew her knees to her chest, protecting herself like a hedgehog. But did she seek protection from the world, or from something inside herself?

"If you wish it, this will be but vapor between us. I will speak no more of love, will satisfy myself with your friendship, which is a far greater blessing than ever I deserved," he said. He hoped he was stalwart and true enough to keep such a promise; he believed he was.

"I'm scared, Crane." She stared very hard into the far distance, refusing to turn even slightly toward him, lest he see the tears he could already hear. "That by getting greedy and pushing for something great, I'll fuck up one of the few good things in my life. Because if we do what you said, if we  _jump_ , that's it. Either we soar or we splatter. We can never go back to the way things were." She laughed, a cruel sound directed at herself. "Isn't it goddamn ironic. I love you too much to  _love_ you. Fucking perfect."

He ached for her, for the life that had shown her so little in the way of kindness, that forced her to doubt her own affections. She had been dealt the far crueler hand: He had slept through his waiting, while she had been forced to live decades of desolation while she waited for him to awaken. He had loved and lost, while she had never loved at all.

It was tempting to wave aside her concerns with sweet words. That surely their love would succeed; it was  _destiny_. That he would dedicate every breath to the service of her happiness. That he would treasure her heart above all things of heaven and earth. But while he could commit himself to those ends, he could never know for sure whether they would be enough. Whether it would not all fall to ashes, as she so bleakly predicted.

He steeled his courage. "Miss Mills," he began.

She turned to him then, eyes blazing and angry beneath a veil of unshed tears. "What if I lose you? What happens then?"

"That, I cannot say. Nor can any man." He smiled then, for the first time allowing hope to well within his breast. "But oh, Abbie, what if you don't?"

He did not know if the sound that issued from her was a laugh or a sob, or perhaps an amalgamation of the two. But slowly, like a flower, she unfurled from her protective huddle. He feared she would flee; he hoped she would stay. Instead, she squared her shoulders toward him, seized his collar, and drug him bodily forward. And then, she kissed him.

Ichabod swore he saw the face of God in her eyes.

Her lips were soft and warm, surprising in the gentleness and deliberation with which she kissed him, even if her mouth did rather  _move_ more than he was accustomed to. Her tears pattered against his face, and he cradled her cheeks in his hands, wiping the offending moisture away. It would now be his honor-bound duty to ensure that the only tears she knew would be those of joy.

The kiss ended, as all kisses must. They blinked at one another, and Ichabod could feel an idiotic smile spreading across his face. She did not return the gesture.

"I'm a pain in the ass, Crane. This isn't gonna be easy," she warned. As if anything could deter him now.

"Then we are fortunate that I am possessed of an endlessly sweet and mild disposition," he teased. He took special care to remember this moment, etching the sound of her laughter onto his heart so he could carry it with him always.

"And, I can't believe I'm saying this, but slow. I want to go slow. You're too important to rush." She scrubbed the remnants of her tears away with her knuckles.

"My lady, you have the lead in this dance. I shall merrily follow wherever you wish to go."

They sat on the riverbank as the sun slipped away and a gibbous moon rose.


	35. Exquisite Terror

Even before she opened her eyes, she knew he was awake. There was just this electricity around Crane, a sense that he was so overflowing with ideas and theories and stories that they leaked into the air around him even when he was silent. But right now, she wished that hum was gone, that he was still sleeping. Because now, she had to figure out what the hell she was gonna do next.

Abbie debated her options. She could play possum and fake sleep. Maybe eventually he'd get up and she could...what, duck out a window? No, she was going to have to face him. And she  _wanted_ to. After all, staying over had been her idea. They'd walked back to the cabin—it was closest—hand in hand, which was strange in the most familiar way. For once, they weren't holding each other for dear life; they were holding hands just because they  _liked_ each other. They'd shared a lousy frozen pizza in front of the fire, and talked about Plato, the best tools for exorcising demons, and Michael Jackson.

And she just hadn't wanted to leave. Because if she did, she might miss one of those wonderful  _somethings_ bursting from him. Or she might never have noticed the way his eyelashes faded to gold at the ends. Or found out that nipping at  _just_ the right spot on his neck made him gasp and melt against her.

So she'd stayed, and they'd slept, and that had been nice. Sleeping together—in the literal sense—was old hat to them. It was the waking up together part she wasn't so sure about. Was it gonna be weird? Abbie was pretty sure it was gonna be weird. Small talk and morning breath and the awkward "oh, you take the bathroom first," "no,  _you,_ I insist" song and dance. She hated all that, the minutiae of physically  _being_ with someone. But she guessed she was gonna have to figure it out. The quicker, the better.

She opened her eyes. He lay propped on his side, watching her through heavy lids. He was so relaxed, he seemed part liquid, for once still. But when he saw her, his face exploded into a smile.

"Hi," she said, pulling the scratchy plaid blanket up over her shoulder.

"It still seems a dream," he said. He brushed her cheek, quickly and delicately, like he was afraid she might crumble away at his touch. "But your presence makes even this newly fledged day among the finest I have ever known."

She nodded, because she didn't know what else to do. And she wasn't sure where to look, either: his eyes were right there, so close, staring right through her. She rolled over and buried her face against his linen-covered shoulder. Immediately, his arms twined around her—close enough to be comforting, but loose enough that she knew she could escape, if she needed to.

Maybe this wouldn't be so weird after all. They drowsed, his fingers drabbling lightly through her hair.

"While you slept, I have been occupied with matters of the gravest importance," Crane pronounced. Abbie vibrated with the low rumble of his voice.

"What's that?" she asked lazily.

"What I shall call you now. After all, while 'Miss Mills' or 'Lieutenant' still serve admirably when we are with company, it will hardly do when we are alone."

She stiffened, suddenly wide awake. She squirmed away from him a little, enough that she could see his face. "Abbie works. Abbie has  _always_ worked," she said.

"It feels...ill-fitting for common use." She had to admit, she kind of got what he meant. At this point, he'd made it such a thing that using it casually would be jarring. But did they have to make a big deal out of it? It was just a stupid fucking name. "And you once told Mr. Morales that you abhor the appellation 'Abigail' when he used it in jest, so we must resort to sweet words of endearment. Darling, perhaps. I have always been partial to dear heart. Sweetling does not seem to suit you, I fear. There is, however-"

"I'm gonna make some coffee." She ducked out of his arms and was gone before he even knew what happened. It just—Jesus. Pet names. She needed a minute, just a  _minute_ alone, a minute when he wasn't looking at her or touching her or even thinking about her. When she was just  _Abbie_  again. She threw grounds and water into the coffeemaker and stared as it wrung out life-giving caffeine drop by drop.

He didn't come for her right away. The pot was half-full before he emerged, dressed and fastening the cuffs on a fresh shirt. Good. That bought her another few seconds of invisibility while he fiddled with the buttons. She was fine. She was good. Everything was okay.

"Miss Mills," he started.

"So I was thinking, there's a battlefield in White Plains," she said. "Might be a place War would hang out. I'm not due in at work until noon, so we have time to read up on it, maybe even drive out there-"

"If I in any way caused you discomfort or alarm, please know you have my sincerest of apologies. It is, very simply, the last thing I should ever desire," he said quietly.

"You didn't," she said without thinking. Didn't matter if it was true or not, she wasn't going to tell him that her palms got sweaty at the thought of being someone's "dear heart." Even his. And even if he was so very dear to her own heart.

He stepped forward to pull two mugs down from the cabinet—one with WORLD'S BEST POLICE OFFICER written in huge block letters, the other covered in badly drawn Texas bluebells. Abbie filled them both, and Crane filled his with spoonfuls of sugar. He sat at the little table, while she leaned against the counter.

"Do you regret the events which transpired between us last evening?" he asked after a while.

"Jesus fuck, no," she said, surprising even herself with her vehemence.

"Impressively blasphemous," Crane said drily. She laughed in spite of herself, and the tension ebbed away from her like the tide. Everything was going to be okay; she'd push through this. She just needed to find the right words.

"I just...love is supposed to be all rainbows and fuzzy baby ducklings, but I feel like I almost don't belong to myself any more, you know? It's like you own a part of me, and even if I want you to have it, even if I know I have a piece of you, too, that part of me's still gone. Or changing, or  _something_. " She sat abruptly and gulped down several mouthfuls of too-hot coffee. Her tongue burned. "That didn't make any sense, did it?"

He smiled and held out his hand. She didn't want to take it; not really. She wanted to cling to her coffee cup and try to steal little bits of herself back. But refusing would hurt him, and that would be even worse, so she took his hand. He wrapped his fingers around hers. "I found it to be quite sensical indeed. And you are not wrong. To love means to give of oneself, of course. But just as importantly, it means to take the love offered you in return, to pull it into your being and, yes, to change. It can take time, and it can feel like the most exquisite terror." He pressed his lips against the back of her hand, and nothing had ever felt as exactly  _right_ as the feeling of his skin meeting hers. "What I call you does not matter. All that matters is that you are happy, and you know that you are adored."

Abbie's skin felt super-heated, like she'd sizzle in the rain. She leaned across the table and kissed him again and again. She kissed him hard and she kissed him soft; she kissed with lips and tongue and teeth. She kissed him the "thank yous" and the "I'm sorrys" and the "I'm trying my bests" she couldn't figure out how to say. And through it all, she hoped he was happy, and that he knew he was adored.

* * *

"There is not a single shred of evidence to suggest that the Second Horseman is at the site of the Battle of White Plains. He made it explicitly clear to me that 'War has come to  _Sleepy Hollow.'_ Why would he decamp to the site of an unimportant battle? General Washington spoke of it to me on only one occasion, and he said-"

"Stop. If you go off on what Georgie-boy told you, we'll be here all night," Abbie said. She braced herself against one of the archive tables and popped her back. They'd needed her on the streets all day today, and eight hours in a cruiser left her feeling like a pretzel. "So if it's not White Plains, where is he? You've been researching this all day."

He waved a hand at the stacks of books, parchments, even a few pages printed from the Internet. "Forgive me, but a single day's labor is not sufficient to sort through nigh upon three hundred years of martial history. It will take time to locate War."

"Then let's go looking for him. If he's in Sleepy Hollow proper, even better, town's not that big. But we can't fuck around. The Seven were enough for me—let's not give him time to drag something nastier out of hell." She jangled her keys. "I'll even let you drive. You could use the practice."

Crane flung a sheaf of papers to the floor, his lip curling as he geared up for a good rant. "Yes, by all means, let us blindly stumble into some sort of trap the Rider has prepared for us-"

"His name is Jeremy, Crane." Just like that, it was as if she'd sucked all the air out of the room. He froze, looking up at her with wide eyes. Oh, this was gonna suck. She slid into the chair opposite him. "Not the Rider. Not War. Not the Second Horseman. Jeremy."

"Thank you for the gentle reminder; his identity had quite slipped my mind. I had entirely forgotten that my  _own son_ betrayed us, buried me alive, and sold his mother into unholy matrimony," he sneered.

"None of that changes the fact that you love him." He wilted forward, hair falling in front of his face. "Let me do this for you. Let me take Jenny, and we'll finish this. You shouldn't have to be a part of it." The very thought of walking up to Henry, who loved puzzles and grandpa sweaters and plants, and straight up murdering him wasn't easy for Abbie. In a way, his life hadn't been so very different from her own: growing up with no parents, no direction, with a big supernatural secret to hide. But Henry had let the world break him. Abbie had come close—way too fucking close— to the same fate, but in the end, first Corbin and then Crane had saved her. She'd been lucky.

But even if his actions were understandable, it was still too late for Henry. You don't just get to be Team Good Guy again after you help start the apocalypse. There was only one way.

"With all of my heart, I wish this burden could be given to another. Coward that I am, I would gladly permit someone else to shoulder the load." He cleared his throat. "But as a Witness and as a father, we both know it must be me."

Abbie tucked his hair behind his ear and rested her hand against his cheek. "It's not fair. I'm sorry," she said.

He covered her hand with his own. "I will do this. No,  _we_ will do this. But I pray, grant me time. Let me ensure all is in order, that we are certain. Both for our safety, and to ensure that his end is merciful. He deserves that much." He laughed, though its sadness hurt her ears. "No, he deserves much, much more. But it is all I can give."

They both knew they didn't have much time. That Henry could be waiting in the parking lot. Hell, if he was smart, he'd just hunker down in some bushes with a sniper rifle; way more efficient than demons. But how the hell was she supposed to say no to him? "Yeah. Of course. We'll get this buttoned up tight. And I'll tell the deputies to be on the lookout for him. On the down low."

"Thank you." He shuffled papers, and Abbie gave him time. "Forgive my atrocious manners: How was your day? Did you subdue the criminal element lurking deep in the heart of Sleepy Hollow?"

She tugged over a heavy book of maps that smelled like old feet. "It was a bad day. Had a road rage case—dude beat the shit out of another dude with a tire iron for cutting him off. Then a bad domestic abuse scenario, not the first time I've been out there. And a bar fight at six o'clock, which is way too early for that to be going down. Everybody's telling me the same—major uptick in violent offenses."

Neither one of them had to say that it wasn't a coincidence. They knew what was causing it, and they knew how to stop it. "I see," Crane said.

They leaned over their crumbling old books and settled in for a long, long night together.


	36. The Sky Falls to the Sea

"Tomorrow. War will ride tomorrow," Crane said. Perhaps if he said it softly enough, she would not hear and it would not be true.

She looked up from the map of Sleepy Hollow she had been intently studying for hours. "Tomorrow's Fourth of July," she said. "The parade. Whole town will be out. Are you sure?"

With all his soul, he wished he were not. "Apart from the obvious symbolism of Independence Day, the fourth day of July has been fraught with War for centuries." He pushed the computer with its list of gristly days toward her. "362, before Christ: the Battle of Mantinea. During the Crusades, the Battle of Hattin. The Siege of Belgrade. In my own time, the Battle of Kaskaskia. Two battles during your Civil War. World War the First, the Battle of Hamlin. The death of a Russian Caesar. Battles on all continents during your Second World War." He looked at his notes again in disbelief. " _Twice?_ How it is possible you had wars that spanned the globe entire _twice_ within thirty years _?_ "

"You're going to hold me personally responsible for wars that started decades before I was born? Seems fair." The absurdity managed to coax a small smile from her, a sight he had rarely seen these past days. The situation in Sleepy Hollow had grown ever-more dire. Violence reigned in the streets. She worked far too many hours, and told far too many tales of injured compatriots. Detective Morales still lay in hospital from injuries sustained during a brawl at the secondary school. She did not blame him, but they both knew that his reticence was putting innocent lives at risk.

He hated himself for that, of course. But he could not yet act, for there was still one insurmountable problem: He did not know if War could be killed. Half-mortal, Jeremy had called himself. But Katrina had been all-too mortal, alas, and certainly Ichabod was deeply human, without the smallest touch of magic about him. Yet something had sustained Jeremy for those aching years in the ground. The witches believed him dead, yet somehow, he clung to life.

Ichabod could not bear the thought of somehow restraining his son once more, sentencing him to an eternity of cruel captivity. But neither could he permit Jeremy to continue his present course. The result was an endless paralysis of research and self-loathing that served no one.

"Okay, so a lot of bad shit went down on July Fourth throughout the years," she said, quite unaware of his turmoil. "Bet that's true of almost any day on the calendar. War happens a lot."

The facts. Yes. The more Ichabod could ground himself in facts and separate himself from emotion, the more he could bear this sorrow. "An excellent point. However, the conjunction of the stars—a rare combination of Mars rising, with dominant influences from Jupiter and the moon-lead me to believe the Horseman will be at his most potent then. He will not hesitate to act."

She laughed, letting her weary head fall into her hands. "A This Day in History calendar and a fucking horoscope. That's what we're basing our battle plans on."

"Admittedly, it sounds absurd. But we have made do with far less evidence."

"True enough." She stood, stretching above her head. Her shirt rose with her arms, revealing a distracting sliver of smooth stomach. There had been precious little time for romance between them—stolen kisses, brief but fulfilling moments she had described as  _hitting second base-_ \- but it would keep. If he perished in this battle, at least he would know that he had, for a few blissful days, held her heart.

"We must make inquiries with the interim captain and begin the process of canceling the parade." He did hate the thought of calling off a celebration of his friends and compatriots, yet sacrifices must be-

"Save your breath. No way it's gonna happen. People would say we're 'letting the terrorists win.'" She rested one haunch on the edge of the table, shrugging.

"Surely logic and reason will prevail. The parade could be rescheduled," he suggested.

"You'd think. But what I can do is call in a threat. Won't cancel things, but it will double police presence and keep some people at home." Her face grew uncommonly soft, and his stomach soured as he knew what their next topic of discourse must be. "How you wanna play this?"

"This is no game," he snapped, banging his hand against the table so the books jumped. But she did not flinch from him, did not return his misdirected anger with a cutting rejoinder, though he had no doubt she had one at the ready. Instead, she stepped toward him. He wrapped his arms around her hips and buried his head against the curve of her waist. For the barest moment, she stiffened at his touch. "Forgive me," he sighed.

She wove clumsy fingers through his hair, and he selfishly permitted the moment to stretch on, as if he could gain some measure of her indomitable strength and will by their very contact. But far sooner than he would have liked, he pulled away and climbed to his feet. "We will  _play_ this intelligently. Jeremy is our goal. We must brook no distraction. No matter what evil he perpetrates, we must remain focused, for if we can reach him, all else will cease."

"Just promise me you aren't gonna try to do this all on your own. No cowboy stuff. We're in this together, and if you try to go all vigilante, it's gonna end badly."

"Another time, you will have to explain to me what vigilantism has to do with cattle herding." He spread the map of Sleepy Hollow before them. "In the meantime, be so kind as to summon Miss Jenny. As you say, we are  _all_ in this together."

* * *

Sleepy Hollow burned.

Flames licked at buildings, devouring wood and shattering ancient brick. People ran in stampeding droves, abandoning strollers and clutching wailing children as they ran from the carnage. They pushed and shoved; some were sucked into the red, white, and blue undertow of the mob. Abbie stepped on something—some _one_ , a hand, she thought—but she was swept away before she could help.

They'd thought the popping sound had been from firecrackers, until the windows blew out of the antique store. Then the store next to that, and the next, like exploding dominoes. They hadn't planned for this. The street swarmed with cops; the Apocalypse Trio was armed to the teeth with blades and guns. But there was nothing to  _fight._ And no sign of Henry.

"Keep moving. Do not run. Walk quickly and keep an eye out for your kids," Abbie shouted over the chaos. Everyone ignored her.

"There! The church!" Jenny yelled as they pushed upstream against the panicking masses. Abbie squinted through the smoke; but there, in the white church hung with bunting, just off Main Street, she could just make out a shadow in the bell tower. A lone figure watching the shitshow below.

Crane. She'd lost Crane. How the fuck do you lose a giant? Maybe that was for the best, maybe the two of them could do this without him-

Fuck. There he was, racing ahead of them toward the church. He must have spotted Henry before Jenny, and was going to do the stupid thing they'd specifically talked about not doing. Why was she even surprised?

The crowds thinned as Abbie and Jenny elbowed their way toward the church, as if Henry were herding everyone away from him. Maybe he was. The thing was, they didn't even really understand Henry's goal. Was he out for revenge? Was he just a sadistic fuck, broken by his time in the ground? Or was this all part of a larger apocalyptic game plan? Abbie just didn't know if they were dealing with a rational person or a crazy one. She guessed it didn't matter now.

Crane reached the church gate ahead of them, the sword on his back bouncing. But just as he stepped over the threshold, the ground started to ripple like water, the gravestones tilting. He skittered to a stop, and the sisters slid up behind him.

Abbie had seen enough horror movies to know what was coming next. "Swords," she said, pulling her own short blade from her jury-rigged holster. "Guns aren't gonna help."

"Won't help with..." Crane's question dribbled away as the first hand popped out of the ground, finger bones waggling as they felt the air for the first time in more than two centuries.

"Fuck me sideways," Jenny said, pulling the gleaming ax from her back.

"We stick together. Watch each other's backs. Just keep pushing toward the bell tower," Abbie said. More hands now. Some clattered with rings, and Abbie tasted acid in the back of her throat. "Let's go, before they all wake up." Crane touched the back of her hand, so quick she wondered if she imagined it, then drew his own blade.

They ran, Jenny on point, Crane and Abbie flanking just behind. Fingers snagged at their ankles, and they stomped them like spiders. The first full body broke free—stretched, leathery skin, a tattered dress, and gaping eye holes. It moved fast, faster than a fucking skeleton should have been able to move ( _how fucking fast_ should  _skeletons be able to move?_ Abbie wondered with an edge of hysteria). Jenny decimated its torso with a giant sideswipe, but now there were more, pressing around. The trio hacked and kicked, bones flying through the air.

They fought for every step they took. A skeleton with a broad-brimmed black hat tore four gouges into her cheek with his rotting finger bones; she knocked off his skull with a swing that would make Ichiro Suzuki jealous.

Abbie was just steps away from the relative safety of the church when she heard Crane's shout. He was mobbed with skeletons ( _fuck you, Henry)_ , the monsters pressing in too tightly for him to get anywhere with his sword. He was forced to shove and kick at them, but there were so many: they pulled at his clothes and plucked at his skin, leaving bloody pocks behind.

Abbie attacked. Shards of bone flew into her face. Her nostrils were filled with the musty funk of the grave. She was on autopilot, all thought pushed out of her head but one:  _Save Crane._  She hacked and she tore until there was nothing left between them.

"Your face," he said weakly, raising a hand toward her blood-slicked cheek. Like he wasn't currently covered in dozens of wounds of his own.

"Will heal. Get in the fucking church. Jenny!" she called, snagging him by the forearm and dragging him along.

"Go! I'll hold the door." Jenny was covered in powdered bone, her hair almost white with it. But she was perfectly in control of the situation, not a scratch on her. And maybe for the first time ever, Jenny looked completely at peace as she jerked her ax from a yellowed skull. Like this was exactly where she belonged.

"Be careful," Abbie warned as she shoved Crane into the church and yanked the door shut behind them. They stood in the darkened narthex, rasping for breath. "You okay?" she asked.

"Not in the slightest. And you?"

"Nope. You ready?"

He took a minute to answer, closing his eyes. What was he seeing back there? Imagining Jeremy as a baby, trying to find even a trace of a happy memory? Or was he getting mad, getting ready for what they had to do, calling up Henry's face as he'd poured grave dirt on top of him? Whatever he was looking for, he must have found it, because he opened his eyes and nodded. "Yes. Let it be done."

They crossed the echoy sanctuary, expecting a sea monster to rise out of the holy water or something similarly fucked up. But all was quiet as they found the staircase to the bell tower and began to climb.

Crane led the way, taking the tiny-treaded stairs two at a time. She followed as quick as she could, trying to ignore the way her heart pounded in her ears. She could do this.  _He_ could do this. They would be okay. They had to be.

They paused at the top of the stairs. Abbie swapped her sword for her gun, and felt for the familiar weight of the handcuffs at her belt. She wished she'd brought leg manacles, too, but fuck it. Too late now. If they couldn't kill him outright, this would have to be enough. Crane glanced back at her, his eyes as wide and frightened as they had been the very first time she met him, a man utterly lost. And all she could do was nod at the door. "Do it," she whispered.

He threw open the door, took one step inside, and collapsed like a sack of potatoes. Just  _whomped_ to the floor. Henry stood just beyond, watching them with polite interest. Abbie didn't stop to think. She just pulled the trigger, again and again.

Click. Click. Click.

"Were you looking for these?" He opened his hand, and her bullets pinged out, one after the other. "The tools of War are mine to command."

Disappointing, but not surprising. Keeping her eyes on Henry, she knelt beside Crane. Checked for a pulse. She found one, surprisingly steady, in his shredded wrist. "What did you do to him?"

"He is sleeping, for now," Henry said mildly.

"Make him not fucking sleeping," Abbie gritted, hovering over Crane's body.

"In good time. We have much to discuss, you and I." Henry stood at the edge of the belfry, outlined by the fires of Main Street. And he just looked so... _Henry._ The lumpy oatmeal sweater. The horn glasses. She guessed she saw it now, the resemblance. He had Crane's long, aristocratic nose. His height, too. Katrina was harder to see, but maybe something about his eyes.

Not that it mattered. He was not their son now; he was a psychotic piece of shit.

"We have nothing to discuss. You betrayed us."

"I betrayed  _him_ ," Henry said, nodding toward the crumpled man at his feet. "I would have returned for you. But you cleverly sprung the trap before I could do so. Again, no thanks to this worthless creature. Even now, I permit him to live out of deference to you."

"Because you blame him for your shitty childhood? He didn't  _ask_ to be put in the ground any more than you did." She shook Crane, slapped lightly at his cheeks, but he just slumbered on, even letting out a gentle snore. Jesus.

"I did not draw you here today to discuss him. Truth to tell, he is of little consequence to me now. I see that he is only a distraction from my higher purpose."

"Ending the world?"

He smiled, a perfectly pleasant smile that made her skin seethe. "Not ending, Abigail. Changing. A common mistake. Did you know that 'apocalypse' means 'to uncover'? To brush away the dust of the old world and create something new."

"Seriously with the etymology? Guess you really are his boy," Abbie said.

Henry's eyes flashed darkly. "We will not speak of him. Do you understand?" She didn't, but she didn't want to risk Henry deciding to make his sleep spell permanent, so she nodded. "From the beginning, I have been interested in you. Very interested. You remind me of myself, in many ways."

"I am nothing like you. I am the anti-you," she said. She stood from her crouch. All she wanted was to stay by Crane's side, her hand pressed against his chest so she could feel every rise and fall and reassure herself that he was alive, but that would be dumb. No one was coming to save her; she had to figure out how to end Henry all alone.

"The child of negligent parents, heir to a supernatural inheritance we could not possibly comprehend. Misunderstood, cast out from the other children. Constantly hiding the fact that we were special, we were chosen." He took a step toward her; sparks drifted through the air. From below, she heard Jenny shout, and she was just desperate enough to send a prayer winging skyward.

"We bear the same scars of abandonment. Of loneliness. Of despair. But our suffering has made us righteous, and it has made us ready." His cheeks flushed with excitement, and he looked more alive than he ever had.

"Ready for what?" Abbie wondered if she could knock him from the roof. One good flying tackle, and she thought she could do it. She might go with him, but that would be okay. She figured that once he was dead, Crane would wake up and the skeletons would go back to being piles of bone. Everything would be okay. But when she tried to take a step forward, her legs would not move. Like she had on concrete shoes.

She was afraid.

"Ride with me," Henry said, fire shining in his eyes. "We lack but one horseman to complete our quartet. But you, my dear, you will complete our number. All your life you have starved. For affection, for love, for understanding. Unleash that hunger upon the world, and take up Famine's bridle. Yes, there will be pain at first," he said, as if he were assuaging her perfectly reasonable concerns about his perfectly reasonable plan. "But the earth must be scoured before our future may be revealed."

At least she knew now he was crazy. There was comfort in that, in knowing what she was dealing with. "I'm a Witness. I fight you. I don't join your fucking equestrian club."

"Why? Because  _he_ proclaimed you Witness? Your fate is in your hands, Abigail. I am offering you power. I am offering you  _family_ , among those who know what it is to be rejected. To be unwanted. But in our new world, none will ever be forgotten."

Maybe this was it. This was how it all ended. Fine. She and Crane would go down together, the way they were supposed to. Let God choose some other Witnesses to pick up where they left off. "You realize how you sound, right? We're talking batshit, cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs-level crazy if you think I will  _ever_ join you."

"I knew from the moment I saw you, when you were a terrified child in the forest. I was half-mad-"

" _Half?_ "

"-but I saw your greatness. That is why I sent the Seven. To inflict pain upon my worthless patriarch and to test you. Temper you. Forge you into something marvelous." He beamed proudly. "And you performed beautifully, my dear. Just beautifully." He extended his hand, his skin papery and almost translucent. "You are ready to assume your rightful place."

"Fuck my rightful place. Fuck Famine. But above everything,  _fuck you._ Kill me, and let's be done with it." Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Death was the worst thing that could happen, right? It was once, one sharp, shining moment, and then it was gone, on to heaven or hell or nothingness. At least then the fear of it was gone. And she'd find Crane there, wouldn't she? God owed them that much. God owed them each other.

Henry just smiled. He turned his back to her, gazing out over his little kingdom. "Kill you? You misunderstand. Your choice is simple: You will ride, or he will die." A scream echoed from below. "As will she. But you, Abigail, I shall ensure you live for eternity, your years stretching into an infinite desert of misery until the sun burns cold and the sky falls to the sea. You think you have known loneliness? It has only just begun." He walked to the door back into the church, in no particular hurry. He nodded cordially. "You have two days. I look forward to your decision."

The door slammed. The gun fell nervelessly from Abbie's fingers. Crane gasped to consciousness. Through it all, the town burned.


	37. Destiny

Ichabod flinched as the needle pierced her flesh. She did not.

"You should see a physician. This work is far too delicate for my clumsy hands." He took the greatest care to keep his stitches tiny and precise, but he still feared the scar he would leave behind on her smooth cheek.

"Docs are too busy to mess with me right now," she said.

"Hush. You mustn't move." She was correct, though; the town doctors were perhaps the only ones who had been busier than they. Once he awoke from his shameful slumber, they had been all motion. Jeremy had fled ("I'm fine, he's gone, I'll tell you later," was all Miss Mills would say on the subject) so they had joined the rescue efforts. The casualties were far lighter than they had feared; only two fatalities, but dozens of survivors lay trampled, burned, and broken in the streets of Sleepy Hollow.

Dawn smudged the horizon when they stumbled back to the armory, somewhat startled to recall that they, too, had taken injury during the battle. She had insisted on cleaning and binding his multitude of tiny wounds with a liquid which fizzed alarmingly before she would sit still long enough for him to aid her.

He paused to untangle his thread, and she reached again for the bottle of rum at her side. "When we have finished here, you must tell me what transpired between you and Jeremy," he said.

"Okay." It had been this way since he had awoken; she answered him with single words, if at all. She spoke only to issue commands. With every moment that passed, his fear grew. What could have happened? What did she so fear to tell him?

He stitched up the deepest gash, carefully applying sticky butterfly-shaped bandages to the shallower injuries. "Is there aught else?" he asked. She shook her head, and he rose to wash the blood from his hands. When he returned, she was already sorting through piles of books, diligently searching for something.

"You must speak to me," he said, despising the pleading note in his voice. Hating that he had not been there—for her, for him—during that fateful hour, that now he must beg for information like a dog begs for scraps.

"You're making this into a bigger thing than it was." She continued rifling through books, stalwartly refusing to meet his eyes. She pursed her lips, ever so slightly. "It was nothing. All talk. 'War has come to Sleepy Hollow, you cannot defeat us, the Seven were just the beginning, blah blah, you'll never know the unimaginable power of the Dark Side.'"

"You're lying," he said flatly.

She shrugged. "Think what you want."

"Why would he go to the trouble of rendering me unconscious to deliver trite threats of villainy? Why would you permit him to do so?" He scratched at one of his wounds; the bright flash of pain lent him clarity. He must uncover the root of her deception. For both their sakes'.

She finally looked up at him. "Took the bullets from my gun. Said he controlled the tools of War. Couldn't do a damn thing." Then her nose was back in the books. "I know you want it to be more than it was, but Henry was just being a dick to you because he could. Got the impression he's stalling for time, doesn't have a clear game plan."

"The destruction of half the high street would indicate at least a  _rudimentary_ plan. And what are you searching for?" he asked, exasperated and exhausted. He wished to sleep for a hundred ye-

No. He assuredly did not. But a brief respite would be welcome, though it was unlikely. He simply had not expected having to do battle with her as well as with War.

"Info on how someone becomes a horseman. What they go through, what happens to them, what kind of powers they get. While he was blabbing, I got the idea. After all, we defeated Abraham by reversing that mark on his hand. Might be something similar for Henry."

"This idea merely occurred to you spontaneously? When we have battered ourselves at this problem for days on end, it flits into your mind immediately after a meeting with War to which you were the only witness? Pardon the pun, and also forgive me if I no longer believe in coincidence."

She calmly turned the page. "G'head. Yell at me all you want. Call me a liar. Used to it. Or you could accept that Henry was playing a power game to freak us out, get over yourself, and  _help me._ "

Was it possible she told the truth? His judgment where the Horseman was concerned was...cloudy, at best. He could be reading too much into the situation, giving War too much credit. "Do you swear upon your honor that what you have told me is true? That the Horseman gave no specific threat, that we are in no greater danger than we are any other day?"

It took her a few heartbeats to raise her eyes from the page, but she did, meeting his gaze levelly. "I swear on my honor that you don't need to worry."

The phrasing was not precisely what he had asked. But what could he do? He could not force the truth from her unwilling lips. He would have to trust—either that the world was strange and she spoke true, or that in time she would tell him what had transpired atop the church. In the intervening period, they would do what they always did.

He sat beside her, and they resumed their work. But with every passing hour, she became more withdrawn. Not only from him, but from the world at large. When her captain called and asked her to take to the streets, she feigned illness. When he suggested they pause in their studies to steal a few hours of sleep, she shook her head and opened another can of  _energy drink._

His concern grew. What was so vile, so horrific, that she could not confide in him? Or had he done something to betray her trust, given her some reason to doubt his fidelity?

As they each silently battled their demons, they parsed the few bits of knowledge they could glean from his memories and their research: becoming a Horseman involved the inscribing of a symbol into the flesh. With Brom, it had been the bow upon his hand and the wheel upon his head. Where Jeremy's marks lay, they did not know. Other sources suggested the host was infused with the blood of a fallen angel; yet others proclaimed that witches' sorcery fueled the transformation.

Hearsay, conjecture, and  _contes des fées._ Not a scrap of information they could act upon.

The hours stretched on, and his eyes grew heavy as he leafed through yet another grimoire written in awful Creole Dutch. He did not even notice her approach until she pulled the book from his hands and threw it carelessly upon the table. All thoughts of sleep fled at once, and retreated even further when she sat astride his lap, her slight weight settling upon him. He opened his mouth to speak, but she pressed her fingers against his lips, and he fell to silence. Her dark eyes swept across his face with intense concentration. Was she searching for something in his visage? Remembering something?  _Trying_ to remember something? He did not understand.

Then, all at once, her lips were upon his. She kissed with such desperate ardor, it was as if she sought to draw the air from his lungs. He pulled back, gasping. "What-"

"Shh," she soothed, devouring him once more, and he could not think, could not formulate his hazy concerns into human language. Her hands slipped beneath the tail of his shirt, her nails skimming across his chest and turning his skin to flame. He cradled her face in his hands, only still rational enough to mind her stitched cheek, the rest of him consumed by the aching need of her ministrations.

She fumbled with the buttons of his trousers, and his mind snapped into crystalline clarity. While he had longed for this moment, he knew to his soul that something was amiss. "What is the meaning of this?"

"You don't seriously need an answer to that, do you?" She cupped him through his trousers, and upon discovering the predictable physiological response, gave a feral grin. "Didn't think so." He seized her wrist, halting her advances. Her eyes narrowed. "Thought I was leading this dance."

"And here I thought we were partners who trusted one another," he returned. "Apparently we were both mistaken."

"Please, Crane," she said, leaning toward him once more. But he turned his face aside. He would not be a pawn in whatever game she played. They both deserved better.

"Tell me," he pleaded.

Her fist beat against his chest once, the pain small yet sharp. But he did not relinquish his grip and he did not look away. "I need to remember you like this. And I need you to know that if things were different, I could have been— _we_ could have been..." Her words faltered, and she sprung from his lap, pacing away like a tiger in a menagerie. He let her go.

"Jeremy threatened me, then. You believe I will die," he said quietly. It was the most logical explanation, both for her behavior and knowing what he did of Jeremy's character.

She coughed out a laugh. "If only, Crane. If only. That I could deal with." She shot him a brief, melting glance. "No offense. But I always figured I'd lose you, one way or another."

"By God, speak!" he cried. The unknowingness of it was agony. What could have her so terrified, if it was not the threat of loss?

"There is nothing you can do. There is nothing either of us can do."

"Whatever it is, we shall  _fight._ That is what we are destined to-"

"No." The word was final, absolute, eternal. "No. Destiny doesn't mean everything's gonna be okay. All it means is God already knows how He's going to fuck us over."

What could he say? What could he do to comfort her, reassure her in the face of whatever knowledge threatened to crush her into the very earth? He started toward her, his hand outstretched, but this time, she shied away from his touch.

"Fuck it. It doesn't matter. You knowing won't change anything. Henry gave me a choice." Another laugh, hollow and empty. "This sounds so goddamn stupid when I say it.  _So_ insane. But he says it's my destiny—you see why that word is  _fucking pointless?_ -to ride with him. As Famine." She tangled a hand through her hair. "You think they'll shave my head? You think I'll keep my soul?"

It was as if his innards had been replaced with glowing coals. Rage and terror battled for supremacy inside him, and he had no notion of which would win. "Impossible. He cannot force you to do such a thing against your will. You must freely choose-"

"'Freely,'" she said, flexing the first two fingers on each hand. "If I say fuck off, you die. So does Jenny, and probably anyone else I've ever met. But not me. Not me. I get to live forever. All alone. I get a front row seat to the apocalypse, but I will be completely unable to stop it. That's my  _choice_." Her eyes were flashing mirrors in the dim light. "Now I dare you, tell me that there's another way. Tell me that we have a  _destiny_."

Famine. Of all the riders, he would put her on that hungry, lonely mount. How utterly un-Abbie, a woman who gave endlessly of herself, who shared her strength with the hungry masses around her. Of all of this, that was the detail he could not shake. That this most abundant woman should be forced to spread deprivation across the land. "When? When must you decide?" he asked faintly.

"Four hours. But there's nothing to decide," she said leadenly. "This way, I can fight them from the inside out. It looks like I'll still be myself enough to do that. I'll have to be. And you and Jenny, you can take up where we left off. You can bring us down."

_Us._  Already she was slipping away. "You cannot mean to give yourself to him."

"Sorry I'm not a fucking Boy Scout like you. I'm not brave enough to damn myself to to my own personal hell forever, not even for the whole goddamn world. Which is probably why he picked me in the first place." Again she filled the room with horrid, twisted laughter.

Anger pierced his despair, and he latched onto it like a drowning man. Anger was propulsive; despair was paralyzing. "Yet you would condemn me—to say nothing of your sister—to hunt you. You hope you would retain your autonomy, but we cannot know. We would be sworn enemies, you and I, and yet again, I would be forced to murder one I love. You would consign me to that dark fate?"

There could be no answer, so she turned from him, silent. He resolutely marched around her until they stood face-to-face once more. "Four hours before he comes. But that is a lifetime. Enough for us to formulate a plan, to put it in motion. Time enough to  _try_."

She shook her head, slowly. "We go back at him, it's gonna be like the church all over again. Our weapons are useless, and he can whammy you before you even know what's going on. I can't count on you."

The very words shattered him. Time and again, he had been absent when those he loved needed him most. Jeremy. Katrina. Abbie. He could make all the excuses in the world, protest that he had never wished to leave them. But the fact of it was, he had not been there. Full stop.

Until now.

"He cannot  _whammy_ me if he does not know I am there. He would not attack if he believed he were at the height of his victory," Ichabod said.

She blinked, and her eyes were clear for the first time in days. "You have an idea."

"I am beginning to. But if we are to succeed, you must do the impossible: you must have faith. If not in God, then in yourself."

A nascent smile tugged at her lips before it collapsed upon itself. "I can believe in  _us._ That good enough?"

"It will do as a start." Every moment was precious now; they could not waste a single heartbeat. Yet he approached her slowly, as he would a wounded animal. When she did not shy away, he pulled her into his arms. She embraced him with such force he swore his ribs would crack, but he would not change this moment for all the world. "Now, Lieutenant, I believe it is time for us to 'kick some ass,' as you would say," he murmured against her hair.

She tightened her grip even more. "You're catching on."

"Slowly but surely." With great reluctance, he released her. "Now then. Tell me everything. Leave out no detail, no matter how insignificant it may seem. We must use every-"

"Crane." It took him a moment to follow her gaze to the nearby table. There stood a scale of gleaming gold. A handful of wheat weighted one of the balances; it hung low, nearly touching the table. But in the upper balance sat a small, tidy scroll bound with black ribbon.

He knew he should take the scroll, should save her the terror of whatever lay within it, but he could not seem to force his hand toward the scales. After a seeming eternity, she seized it, quickly, as if it would burn her. At once, the scales reversed their balance.

The paper shook as she untied the ribbon and unfurled its length. "'And when he had opened the third seal, I heard the third beast say, Come and see. And I beheld, and lo a black horse; and she that sat on him had a pair of balances in her hand.'"

The paper drifted from her fingers. She pulled her sleeve down over her hand, so she did not touch the scales with bare flesh, and heaved them against the wall with all her might. They clanged through the air and disappeared in a puff of thick, noxious smoke just before they struck the book case. She straightened her cuffs and her shoulders and walked from the room. Like Lot fleeing from Sodom, she did not look back.

As he hurried behind her, he saw a hint of light for the first time. Jeremy had made his first tactical error: he had underestimated the lieutenant. And like so many before him, he would pay dearly for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The text from the scroll is from the King James Bible version of Revelation 6:5-6, with a few pronoun substitutions.


	38. Two Olive Trees

The river was fat and dull. The spring rains had spilled into summer, turning the sleepy tributary into a muddy monster. But it had only seemed right to wait for Henry here. The place Envy had shown her, had shown Crane. The place where they had fumbled their way toward each other. The place where Death had slept for two hundred years, just waiting to ride.

It was supposed to end here.

She missed her gun. Missed its steely solidness against her hip, missed the way it made her feel a good foot taller. But carrying a gun here would be dumb, just giving Henry something else he could use against her. She wouldn't even risk a knife. She missed Crane more even more. This would be easier if he were right here with her, even if he was falling to pieces over the thought of facing Henry again. Worrying about him would do her good; give her something to focus on instead of her own sweaty palms and the roar of that fucking river. But they both had their parts to play here, and they both had to do it alone.

A shrill whicker sliced through the thick sound of the river. And she beheld, and lo, a black horse.

She'd expected it to be scrawny. Count-the-ribs, oh-that-poor-thing, here-have-a-sugar-cube skinny. But it was the most beautiful horse she'd ever seen. Its coat gleamed like an oil slick, and it was twice as tall, three times as tall as she was. She didn't know how she'd get on that thing even if she wanted to. The horse clip-clopped right up to her and butted its giant head against her chest, almost knocking her on her ass. Jesus, it was like a giant flesh-eating dog. Swallowing bile, she stroked its soft forehead. The beast closed its red, fly-like eyes in pleasure.

"I see you have met Esuritio." Henry dissolved out of the night, his own red stallion weirdly silent."And I see you have come to the proper decision." He swung out of the saddle like a much younger man.

"Not sure decision's the right word for it." She stepped away from the horse, wiping her hands on her jeans. It wasn't hard to look scared and vulnerable; that was sure as shit how she felt. What was hard was to keep the pure rage out of her voice. Rage for this spoiled fucking brat who thought he was the only one in the world who'd been hurt. Who'd been alone. Who had been fucked royally by fate. No, Henry thought his pain was  _special,_ and he wanted to make everyone as miserable as he was. And that just pissed her off.

It was funny: his little stunt with the scales hadn't just reminded her of her anger; it also had given them their first solid lead for defeating him. It was still a long shot, but his Bible verse had sent them to Washington's Bible. Scouring Revelation, they found a tiny notation in neat, slanty script: "The combined Histories of the Witnesses shall bring Peace."

To Abbie, that sounded like vague, useless bullshit. "Well that makes it all very plain," Crane had said, no hint of sarcasm. "Our histories are our blood. It is what has bound us together from the beginning—your connection to Grace Dixon. And of course my blood connects me to Jeremy, who spilled Grace's blood, which connects me back to her and, hence, you. Just as my blood could defeat the Golem, our blood together brings his story full circle. It can, I believe, end him." His eyes had flashed with triumph as he solved the great mystery, but died in an instant as he realized what that meant.

Luckily there was no time to brood. Abbie had asked Jenny to find her something made of olive wood; Revelation called the Witnesses "two olive trees," and she wanted all the extra help she could get. So now here she was, her only protection a broken spoon handle with "REAL HOLY LAND OLIVE WOOD" emblazoned on its side. Jenny said it was the only thing she could find on such short notice; Abbie had not asked where she found it. It sat in her jacket pocket, sticky with blood. Biding its time.

"Look, Henry, it doesn't have to be this way. We were friends, weren't we?"

"We  _are_ friends." He seemed almost hurt, and some of the anger leached out of her. Was she the first real friend he'd ever had? Was that why he was doing this—did he really believe he was  _helping_ her? Or was it just another way to get back at Crane?

"If you're my friend, then prove it. Don't make me do this." She doubled down on the waver in her voice, and palmed her shank. She took two big steps toward him, but he immediately retreated, holding up a hand.

"That is near enough, if you please. And remember, I am not forcing you to do anything. You have a choice. You can wander this earth alone, or you can be more powerful than you could have dreamed of. You can have constant companionship, purpose, and a hand in building a better world for all mankind." He shook his head, crazy gleaming in his eyes. "No. I am just. This war is just. And you'll see, my dear. It won't be so bad as all that."

"But-"

"You try my patience. Take your mount, or I shall take mine," he said in a voice that throbbed with cold. His horse whinnied encouragement.

She hung her head, slumped her shoulders. "You're gonna need to give me a boost."

His eyes widened; he hadn't expected her to make this choice. It had never been about her, then. Not really. It was his way of punishing his father twice: first by making him live with the knowledge that he had damned her, and then again by killing him.

Fuck him so hard.

"I am delighted, just delighted, my sister," he said. "Esuritio will help you take your rightful seat. You shall learn to trust in him in all things."

Shitshitshitshit. She didn't know what she was going to do, but she knew one thing: She was not getting on that horse. She would protect Crane, she would find another way, but she would not climb onto a freaky-ass horse that smelled like rotting meat. There had to be another way to get close to Henry-

A muffled grunt; a half-human, half-horse scream; the overwhelming smell of copper. Henry and Abbie snapped their heads toward the commotion just as the black horse fell to the ground in convulsing agony, gallons of blood gushing from its throat. A trowel clattered from Crane's hand as he clutched at his shoulder. "That's enough, son," he said softly.

Henry's hands twitched at his side, so like his father she got goosebumps. "Again. Again you would rob me of my true family. Again you would condemn me to solitude."

"Quite the opposite. Again I invite you to join our family, not with threats and and fear, but with love and forgiveness," Crane said.

"It doesn't matter what you did. Esuritio is deathless. He will rise again, in time, and Famine will take her rightful place. It is her destiny." He unraveled a little more with each word he spoke. His own mount, nostrils flaring at the scent of blood, butted his shoulder. He absently scratched between its ears.

"My name is Abbie. Not Famine," she said. Her anger was gone, replaced by some brittle thing that was part fear, part pity, and all exhaustion. No matter what happened next, there would be no winners. "You know I can't ride beside you. And I know that you won't condemn me that solitude you were talking about." Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, she'd better be right.

Henry turned his back to both of them, staring out over the river. A sullen little sliver of moon cast silver shadows on the water.

"I forgive you all, as I know your mother does. In return, I beg your forgiveness. Please." The quiet word was almost lost in the river's rage."

That single word was the one that broke Henry. He rounded on Crane. "Please is what I said to the priest as he turned my back to ribbons," he snarled. "Please was what I said to the witches as they lowered me into the ground. Please was what I cried to a silent God as the centuries pressed upon me. No one heard my plea, and no one will hear yours _."_

Henry raised his sweater-clad arm high above his head; a gleaming longsword appeared. A second later, an identical sword crashed to the ground in front of Crane. "Pick it up," Henry ordered.

"Don't be absurd." Crane kicked the sword away. "I will not fight you."

This was her chance. Henry was staring at Crane with laser-intensity; if looks could kill, her partner would be six feet under. That meant there was no room for Henry to worry about her. Quietly, slowly, she began to make her move.

The sword floated in the air in front of Crane, the impossible physics of it making it look like an effect from a bad science fiction movie. His face scrunched as if in pain, and then his right arm shot out and grabbed the hilt. "No, I will not do this," he said, even as he saluted Henry, as he had done to her so many times before.

Henry only smiled, and saluted in return. He dropped into a fencer's crouch, and Abbie raised her arm, clutching her pathetic little stake, and promptly jammed it into her own neck. "Not now, dear," Henry said absently. "I'll be with you shortly."

Everything was a weapon of War. Everything belonged to Henry.

She tried to stagger forward and tackle him, but her legs folded under her. She tried to pluck the stake out, but her finger bones had been replaced with Jell-O. She tried to say something, but she could only produce a strained clicking noise, like a beached dolphin. All she could do was lie there, the stake sticking out of her neck half an inch from her jugular, her blood drip, drip, dripping into the roaring river below.

"Abbie!" Crane cried, but then she heard the clash of swords. Dully, over the immense pain that spread down her body, turning everything to numb fire, she wondered how long it would take Henry to kill him. Crane didn't have a prayer. He wasn't a great swordsman on his best day, but with an injured left arm, a boatload of emotional baggage, and against the Horseman of War who was forcing him to fight like some fucked-up puppet? No. This was all for show, all for Henry's petty revenge.

For Crane's sake, she hoped the fight would be short. For her own sake, she hoped it would take longer. It would give her more time to bleed out, make sure she wasn't here when Henry finally got around to her. Who would come after them? Would Jenny be drafted onto Team Witness? Maybe Irving as her partner? She could see that. She could see them saving the world. Or maybe it would be someone else, someone far from here, someone who right now was sleeping through their last peaceful, ignorant night.

"Damn," Henry muttered, and he careened into her view, his left palm slick with a sudden bloom of blood. He flung his hand out, droplets crashing into the river. Then he was gone again, and everything became white noise, white light, white pain.

The earth shook as Crane fell to the ground beside her. Dimly, so dimly, she could see the tatters of his shirt, a new gash reopening his ancient scar, his life trickling away into the river. "Abbie," he gurgled.

She tried again to say something—sorry, maybe, she didn't really know—but couldn't. She managed to move her hand just enough that their fingertips touched. Just enough that he knew she was here with him, at the end of all things.

Then the river exploded.

A wave broke over them—a  _wave_?- but it wasn't water at all. It was thick and slippery and  _hot_ and metallic but oh, it felt soft like her mom's hugs and it warmed her like Crane's rum-and-tea concoction and it made all the pain disappear, like she had never known pain at all, not ever.

She sat up, opened her eyes, and found herself covered, every fucking inch of her, in blood. It dripped from her hair and ran into her eyes and mouth, but she didn't care. She fumbled at her neck, but the stake and the wound were gone. So was the gash on her cheek. Beside her, Crane was painted in scarlet and scrabbling at his chest, but even his scar was gone.

"No. This is out of season. This is years away from fruition _,_ " Henry said. His sword hung limply at his side; he'd somehow managed to avoid the red tsunami.

"'These are the two olive trees and the two lampstands standing before the God of the earth,'" Crane breathed. "'And they have power over waters to turn them to blood.'"

Moses and Aaron. Jesus Christ, they were fucking Moses and Aaron, but baptized in blood, blood that healed them, blood that had Henry walking backwards toward his horse very fast-

Abbie stretched out her hand over the river, which still ran in scarlet, clotted lumps. Slowly, the water began to rise like a tornado, growing taller and spinning faster with every second. Dead fish swirled in the thick mess.

"What are you doing?" Crane asked.

"Witnessing." Later, Abbie knew this was all going to scare the everloving shit out of her. But for right now, she felt full—of power, of God, of something that seemed to stretch her skin from the inside out. And for the first time in a long time, she knew exactly what she needed to do.

Henry had managed to scramble onto his horse, but as he turned to run, her cyclone snaked from the river, sinuous and strong, and enveloped him. Rider and horse disappeared, screaming, into the churning blood.

She expected Crane to tell her to stop. To beg one more time for his son. But he did not. He stood in perfect stillness as the storm raged, as the screams from within became ever dimmer, ever dimmer. Until the blood lost its shape and gushed to the ground.

Until all that was left were bones.

The river rolled on, its contents plain water once more. On its bank, two olive trees collapsed together, broken in their victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ichabod quotes from the book of Revelation, King James translation, verse 11:4 and a portion of 11:6.


	39. The Remains

Once the box held carbonated beverages. Now it held his son's bones. Some of them, at least. Perhaps even now, a fox gnawed at a tibia and a magpie wove a phalanx into its fantastical nest.

A mug of tea appeared before him. Then a plate bearing a sandwich—pale ham on cottony bread. Then a bottle of rum. Quite against his will, his lips twitched into the smallest of smiles.

"There's beer, too. And eggs. I could make you eggs." She left a hair too much space between them, and she tugged uncomfortably at her wet collar. The blood which had coated them both had returned to its natural, watery state, so at least they no longer resembled beings from a nightmare. Just sad, sodden rats.

"Thank you, no." He took a sip from the mug to appease her, but the weak brew was a mere echo of tea.

"Let me move this for you." She reached for Jeremy's makeshift ossuary, but he placed his hand atop the flimsy paper box.

"Leave him be." He tried to add "please," but somewhere between his mind and his lips, the word transformed into an achingly dry sob.

She started toward him, arms opening as if to embrace him, but she stopped just shy. She folded her arms around herself instead, tight and compact. "Yeah," she said. "Okay. You...take some time. With him. Do what you need to do. I'll just be in the bathroom if you need me. Okay?" He must have nodded, for she left. Presently, he heard the steady rush of water.

All he had of his child was this box of mortal dust. Even the father of a stillborn can recall his joy when he learned his wife was with child; even the mother of a murderer can think back on better days. But that solace was ever denied him, for his every recollection of Jeremy was shot through with pain—the betrayal of Katrina's secrecy, his despair at learning the child's fate. Even though he had respected "Henry" a great deal, their time together had never been happy. It had been full of stranglings and blood lettings, and it was now all tarnished with a murky smear of lies.

With all his heart, Ichabod mourned the son he never had been permitted to love.

Time drifted, eternal and ephemeral. Bare feet slapped against wooden floors, and she came to a stop an arm's length away. She smelled of chemicals, twisted into a poor approximation of lavender. Her skin glowed angrily, as if she had scoured it again and again, until every bit of her was clad in a new, virginal covering.

"You should change out of those wet clothes," she said. "Get some sleep."

It would be so good to do as she said. To follow her instructions like a child, to curl into bed and let the tide of his grief wash over him. There was pain in that, but there was satisfaction, too, like picking at a scab to remind yourself that the pain was real, and that it mattered.

Instead, he forced himself to rise and bridge the gap between them. He touched the raw skin of her collarbone, and she visibly forced herself not to flinch away. "What is it?" he asked, immediately feeling a fool. It was everything, of course. Everything in the entire world was wrong. But there was a specificity to her actions that concerned him.

"Just tired. Honestly don't remember the last time we slept."

"Three days, though I may have snatched a few hours, here and there. But that is not the only issue plaguing you, is it?"

"I'm worried about you, too. Goes without saying."

Damn her. Damn her for always insisting on being the bastion of strength. Bless her for it, too, but there were times when her composure made him feel weak, as if next to her he was nothing but a shambling mess of emotions. "Which is very kind of you, but-"

"I do not want to talk about it," she interrupted. "I will give you anything you need. I will be here for you, I will take care of you, I will do anything I can to help you. But I am not going to talk about this. Are we clear?" She rubbed the back of her hand fiercely, like Lady Macbeth scrubbing out her damn spot.

"You feel guilty," he realized. "For ki-" He shook his head sharply and corrected the word. "For doing what needed to be done."

"I don't. I'm sorry, but I don't. And please do not turn my feelings into some puzzle to solve as a distraction." Was that truly what he was doing? Was he so desperate to consider anything besides the gaping void of loss that he would see turmoil when there was nothing? It was possible. He could not even trust his own perceptions now. And yet-"I'm going to bed now. You really should, too." But she did not take a single step. She swayed gently on her feet, chewing the inside of her cheek with ferocious concentration.

"Forgive me if I speak out of turn, but you must know: To permit a mad dog to live does no kindness to man or beast. And, tragically, that is what my son became. You were able to see that, and to do what I could not." He wished to gather her up in his arms, to let their two broken halves form a tattered whole. But if he did, she would flee. So he gentled his voice, tried to let her hear what she would not permit him to show. "I do not blame you. Not a whit."

"I know that, but it's good to hear," she said. Of course. She knew that the blame lay with him. On his Judgement Day, he had failed once, twice, a thousand times. He had failed the lieutenant in forcing her to take such actions, by being too weak to do the gruesome work himself. Likewise, he had failed Katrina in her final charge. "You must show him how deeply he is loved. You must  _teach_  him to love," she begged with her last breaths. And he had sworn he would do so. But Ichabod's every word of love had seemed only to enrage Jeremy more, to push him farther and farther into his hate. He had failed, and his son had died at the hands of the woman he loved.

"Your scar's gone," she non-sequitured. "The one on your forehead, I mean." She brushed her thumb across the same place on her own brow. "So are all mine. Track marks, cuts, that time I fell off my bike,  _poof._ Like it never happened. Like it never mattered."

"Yes, it would seem the blood held prodigious restorative powers," he said cautiously, praying she would volunteer more information.

She stared at a place over his left shoulder, still rubbing her hand. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

_Be here with me._ He should press her, dig down to the bottom of her odd behavior and find a way through it, together. But tonight, he shamefully lacked the strength. "I believe I shall take your wise counsel and make an attempt at sleep."

"Good call." She started to turn and walk away, but thought better of it. She wrapped her arms loosely about him, only the barest hints of her body touching his in the sort of hug one offers a distant great-aunt who smells of sherry and small dogs. Still, he accepted the timidly offered comfort and buried his face against her neck, breathing in the false comfort of lavender until she pulled away.

By the time he had garbed himself in dry clothes, she was asleep, her back an insurmountable wall. He lay beside her and stared at the ceiling, wishing for the solace of tears. But sleep found him first, and he fell gratefully into its wholehearted embrace.

* * *

He awoke to the sound of trickling water and an empty bed. A Bible lay upon her nightstand, cheap gilding flaking from the ends of its pages. He blearily squinted at the tiny writing—it was open to the Book of Revelation.

The water ceased, and moments later she emerged from the bathing chamber, though there was no tell-tale billow of steam that usually accompanied her as she exited that room _._ She was enveloped in a frayed and tattered robe that skimmed the tops of her thighs. Even in the depths of his grief, he could not be unmoved by her beauty. Oh, to lose himself in her arms, to become a being of motion and sensation instead of feeling and thought, for only a few moments, but-no. It would be highly improper, and the return to the real world would be too difficult to bear. He moved to the edge of the bed, laying a pillow in his lap.

"Hey," she said in that too-careful way one uses with mourners. "How's it going?"

"I would ask you the same question."

"Yeah, that's usually how this works. I ask how you are, you answer, then you ask how I am."

"I am as well as can be expected, thank you. How are  _you?_ "

"Same." She opened her bureau, rummaging through her vast collection of apparel. "This is kind of an awkward subject, but I made some calls this morning. About the remains." The remains. Not the bones, not the body, the remains. The paltry remnants of a life scattered across time.

"I do not wish to speak of Jeremy now."

"Okay. But we have to eventually." She pulled a handful of silken undergarments from the drawer, and ducked out of his view, behind the closet door.

"And just as eventually, we will need to discuss the reason you continue to scrub at your skin with such frantic energy."

"Did you miss the part where we were literally dripping with blood? So sue me if I still think maybe a little's caught under my nails."

He had to admit, it was a logical answer. He could find no fault with it. She stepped out from behind the door, dressed in a thin black shirt and jean trousers. He picked up the Bible, flecks of gold spangling his fingers. "Did you find answers here? Solace?"

At once, her face grew guarded and canny. "Just brushing up on our super secret Witness powers, since apparently that's gonna be a thing now."

"What was it like? Controlling the waters?" He had felt...something, a stirring within him that he could not define or explain. Had he the courage, he could have drawn that nameless thing toward him and done his duty. But, alas.

She sat on the bed, as far from him as she could, and began pulling on her boots. "Like I was a puppet and God had His hand jammed up my ass," she muttered.

"I beg your pardon?"

She stomped hard, settling her foot into place. "You want to know what I felt when I was killing your son? Peaceful. Like God was inside me, feeding me some kind of drug to make me okay with the fact that He's using me every bit as much as goddamn Henry wanted to."

A tiny and terrible portion of him was pleased that he had been correct in discerning her distress. He quickly silenced that petty part of himself. "You...you are saying you did not commit the act of your own free will?"

"No. It was me. I made that choice. But it was more than me, too. I shouldn't have known how to kill him, shouldn't have known how to make a fucking blood-nado. There was something else along for the ride." She shoved her other boot on and stood, hands on her hips. "Tell me, how is that any different from possession? How are these fucking magical powers—water into blood, smiting people with plagues,  _breathing fire from our mouths—_ any different than what Henry had planned for me? At least he gave me a choice. A bullshit choice, but I never got the God opt-out form."

All her life, everyone had attempted to mold Miss Mills in their own image. Jenny wanted her sister to be like her; the ruffians she had fallen in with had tried to change her into a villain; even Sheriff Corbin, with the best of intentions, had pushed her down a pre-determined path. And now here, again, she was clay in the hands of God. She was righteous in her anger. And in her fear.

"It must have been terrifying," he said honestly. "But perhaps we might view this a bit differently, as simply a new weapon in our arsenal. The power is there for us to use, but-"

"No offense, but it's easy to view it with that kind of detachment when it wasn't crawling around under your skin, turning you into something that wasn't quite  _you_ anymore."

He winced, and suddenly her prolonged bathing made sense. She was not washing away invisible blood—she was reclaiming her very flesh. "You are correct, of course. And I take the full blame for my inaction."

"I'm not trying to blame you. You did the understandable thing, and...look, forget it. Forget all of it. I've just got to get my head on straight. It'll be fine." She crammed her hands into her pockets; he could see the lumps of her fists through the fabric.

He stood and crossed to her, delicately placing one finger under her chin, urging her to look up at him. And there she was, his same beautiful Abbie, all the braver for the abiding fear in her eyes. "Regardless of what happens next, you are, and ever shall be, Grace Abigail Mills. Whether you choose to use this power or not—and I believe with all my heart that the choice belongs to us—you will, as ever, excel at doing that which is most difficult, but most necessary."

She let her forehead fall against his chest, and he latched onto her tightly. Any grief, any obstacle, any deity could be conquered if they were united. "Thanks. And sorry. I'm supposed to be the one comforting you," she murmured into his shirt.

"No. We are meant to comfort each other."

So they did. He shared his regret that he had failed in Katrina's dying wish; she confessed she feared he would ever view her as the woman who killed his son. His tears finally came, and she held him with infinite patience. Her rage crested and broke, and he was there to absorb it, soften it, lessen it. The pain was not gone, not for either of them. Nor would it ever be. But now, they could stagger along under its shared weight. Finally, they turned red eyes to the box of bones.

She led him to a site in the Old Dutch Cemetery, just around the bend from Katrina's empty grave. The grass grew thick and lush, and light dappled between the leaves of mighty oaks. He could only nod his approval.

"What name do you want on the stone?" she asked.

Jeremy or Henry. The name of love he had been given or the name of rage he christened himself. The name he repudiated or the name he embraced.

"Beloved son."


	40. Amen

The days quietly dribbled by. Jenny was making progress on springing Irving from jail—something about demon DNA. Crane, well, he Craned, plowing through acres of books and taking tons of neat but incomprehensible notes. And as for Abbie, she was caught up on paperwork for the first time in months, regularly worked out on a treadmill instead of doing the Fifty Yard Demon Dash, and even made herself meals that didn't come from a microwave.

And she was a wreck. It was all just too. Fucking. Quiet. Three of the four Riders had been unseated—how did that work? Did they regenerate? Was there some kind of Evil Minor League they could get recruits from? Or was it just going to be them against Conquest, whoever the fuck that was? She hated the waiting, hated how it gave her too much time to think and feel and over analyze every damn thing.

Without Crane, she would have gone nuts. It scared her sometimes, how easy it felt to be with him. Not  _easy_ easy—they still snapped and sniped at each other; he was still an arrogant asshole and she was still stubborn as a mule stuck in cement. But it still felt like them. Just them plus kissing. And groping. And solitary, frustrated masturbation.

It wasn't that she didn't want to. Didn't  _need_ to. She'd memorized the feel of him pressed against her belly, his cock every bit as long and lean as the rest of him. She woke up almost every morning with sticky thighs, clutching onto fragments of Technicolor dreams. But every time the opportunity presented itself, she backed off. Because if she fucked him, she would lose her last escape hatch. As long as it was just messing around, they could still go back to the way things were before, if they (she) needed to. Or so she told herself every time she listened to Crane quietly rubbing one out in the bathroom, ever the gentleman, never once complaining.

So with all her new free time, she'd rustled up a little gift for him. It wasn't enough, could never be enough, but she was pretty damn pleased with herself. She bounded into the armory, the papers burning a hole in her pocket. Crane stood with his back to her, hunched over one of the long archival tables. He whirled to face her, startled out of whatever bookish fog he'd been in.

"Hi," she said, leaning up for a quick kiss. But he was never one for pecks. He grasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger and took his sweet time. She didn't mind.

"Hello," he said once he judged her thoroughly kissed. "I did not expect you back from your errands so soon."

"Wanted to surprise you." She fished the plastic card from her pocket and pressed it into his hand. Bounced on her toes while she waited.

"Permanent Resident Card," he read. "Made out in my name." He flipped the card over, like there was more that he was missing, then scrutinized the front again. He looked down at her with that carefully blank expression he always wore when he didn't want to admit he had no clue what was happening. "Well. I certainly am...surprised."

"It's a green card. It means you exist, basically. Means you can get a bank account, a driver's license. Means that one day, you could become an official US citizen. You know, if you want."

He got it. The light bulb turned on, and he smiled that rare smile of his, strangely shy but joyful. Breaking half a dozen federal and international laws was totally worth it just for that smile. "I would be an American. A  _voting_ American."

"Yup." It would have been way easier to just get him a British passport and some fake residency papers, but she knew it would mean so much more to him if he had some pathway to citizenship. If he could finally have that dream he'd fought and died for all those years ago.

He smothered her in a hug, then pulled away to look down at his card again. "How did you procure such a document? Certainly I was not born in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and eighty-two."

"I know a guy who knows a guy. The less  _you_ know, the better." Her gift duly delivered, she peeked around him to see what he'd been working on. Weirdly, there were no books laid out on the table. There was a Styrofoam cup of water, a book of matches from Sullivan's Bar, and a potted marigold. "You taking up gardening or arson?"

The smile ebbed off his face. With great care, he tucked the card into his breast pocket. "Thank you for the gift. It truly means the world to me, and I am most grateful for the considerable pains you must have taken to obtain it."

"You're welcome. What's up with this stuff?"

He cleared his throat. Turned toward the table and fiddled with the flower, his fingers fluttering over its squashed yellow petals. "I was...practicing."

"Practicing what?" She wrapped her arms around herself; all of a sudden, it was freezing in here.

"You know very well what," he said softly.

Once, in the very shittiest of their foster homes, Abbie had woken up to find tiny speck-like ants scurrying over her. They didn't bite, didn't  _hurt,_ but she'd felt ghosts of their skittering, prickling legs for weeks after. That's the way she'd felt ever since the day of blood, but that crawling invasion was inside her, under her skin where she could never quite scratch. And here was Crane,  _looking_ for that same feeling.

"And how's that going for you?" she asked.

"It's not." He leaned against the table with a sigh, rubbing at his eyes. "There is nothing there. That wellspring I so distinctly felt that day has vanished. I stare and I will and I am sure I look quite the fool, but the water remains water, the matches remain inert, and the flower remains vibrant."

"Good."

"Not  _good,_ Lieutenant. I refuse to be the bearer of a power we little understand. It is foolish and irresponsible, like walking about with the safety off your pistol." He jerked his head toward her gun, and her cheeks burned hot. "This charge was given us for a reason, and I will not live in ignorance and fear."

"Oh, fuck off." Without her, they never even would have known they had this power, because he'd been too indecisive to act. Hell, without her, they'd be dead. And he had the stones to call  _her_ a coward?

"There is no call for vulgarity. If you do not wish to help, I am confident I can unlock these secrets alone." He stomped around the table like the spoiled brat he was, plunked himself into the chair, and gave the book of matches a withering glare.

It burst into flames.

Not just the matches, the whole book. And it didn't burn  _out_ like it should: it burned up, with pure white flames licking straight into the air. Abbie was flooded with that same feeling of peace and purpose she'd felt before, a wordless urging to pour herself into those beautiful flames, to assist her fellow Witness, to fuel the fire of righteousness-

Abbie staggered for the fire extinguisher. Crane was just sitting there, his hands flat on the table, flames inches away from his nose. She pumped and fired. As the flames splattered out, tears sprang to her eyes, a gaping emptiness in her chest as the last bits of that awful, wonderful fake serenity evaporated.

" _Oh._ " Crane raised a trembling hand to his cheek, wiping a snowdrift of foam away. His eyes were glazed, unseeing. That feeling had only grazed her; he'd gotten the full load.

She let the extinguisher fall to the floor with a clang. "You okay?"

"I-" He laughed, high and breathy and freaking her the fuck out. "How extraordinary."

"Crane, look at me." His eyes fluttered closed, and she stormed over to him, grabbing his face roughly. No response. She dug her nails into his cheeks. " _Look at me_." It took him a minute, but he dragged his eyelids open. Little by little, that terrible drugged look faded, and his eyes snapped into crisp focus again.

"Miss Mills," he murmured.

"Yes. Are you okay?"

"I believe so." He paused, considered. "Yes. I am."

Good. Because that meant she could stop being scared and start being furious. She tore her hands away from his face, balled them into fists, let her nails cut into her own palms instead. "You wanna talk about playing with the safety off, Crane? You could have gotten both of us killed, or worse-"

"Believe me, I would not have done it if I had any inkling it would work." He pushed himself up straighter, smudged at the foam on his shirt. "I have toiled at this for  _days,_ and seen not a spark. There was no reason to believe I would see success now."

"You've been doing this for days? Behind my back?"

"Forgive me for attempting to spare you," he snitted. "I knew—and you have confirmed—you find the idea disagreeable, so I sought to experiment without causing you undue pain."

That was both fucked up and kind of sweet, but she wasn't going to let it distract her. "So you've just been sitting here, staring at a book of matches. And then all of a sudden, for no reason-"

"Of course there is a reason." He frowned down at his sad little marigold, its fat head bowed under the thick frost. He flicked mounds of foam away. "For the first time, you were here."

"Do not rope me into this mess. I did not  _will_ that shit to happen."

"Perhaps not. But you were here. Just as I was with you on the banks of the river. Though we did not share intention, we shared proximity."

"So it's like a circuit. It needs to flow through both of us to complete the loop. And that's why I felt at least a little of that... _whatever_ ," she said with disgust. "It had to pass through me to get to you."

"I will assume your knowledge of circuits is correct and that is indeed how they work, yes. And as for that  _whatever—_ as eloquent a phrase as any at my disposal—that was..." He pressed a hand to his chest. Did he feel that same sucking loss, like a piece of him he'd never known was there had gone missing? "I did not fully understand the magnitude of what you felt. I must have felt it too, I suppose, but amid a maelstrom of other emotions at that moment, I did not know it for what it was."

That's why she didn't trust this thing: it felt good. Everything that felt good had a catch. Sex felt good because God needed people to be fruitful and multiply. Drugs felt good, but they could kill you. Love felt good, but it could destroy you. She and Crane had already made it pretty clear to God that they were in this for the long haul, that they were willing to die for this cause. So what was His game? What was He trying to achieve?

Or maybe, to give God just a little benefit of the doubt, it was supposed to be some sort of consolation prize. "Sorry your life is a constant horror show, at least now you won't feel as bad about roasting people." If so, maybe the fucker had a sense of humor after all.

Abbie let her arms drop limply to her side. "Now that you know what it is, now that you've felt it, what do you think we should do about it?"

He took his time answering, continuing to excavate the marigold. Delicately, he dug through the deflating foam until specks of yellow and orange began to peek through once again. "I maintain that we must understand all the weapons given us. But we must do so carefully, and with a healthy air of skepticism toward their donor." He glanced up at the ceiling like he half-expected a lightning bolt to smite his ass.

What would happen if they actually won this war? If they somehow survived seven years, would there be any of them left? Or would they be so full of God and each other that plain old Abbie and Ichabod would be distant memories?

Maybe. But she'd lost herself before—spent most of her life lost—and she'd found a way back. As long as she could remember that she was Grace Abigail Mills, she could stand up to anybody. Even God.

She took a deep breath and nodded. "Yeah. You're right."

"I'm sorry," he said. She wasn't sure if he meant for setting the room on fire or for the fact that he hadn't been able to leave well enough alone and ignore the power, that he was pulling her even farther into this nightmare.

"It's okay," she shrugged. "Start cleaning up. I'll be back."

Stepping into the cool, drippy quiet of the tunnels was a relief. She walked a ways, listening to her footsteps bounce off the walls, letting her mind go blank and calm. She needed calm to have the conversation she was about to have.

Finally, she knelt on the slimy stones. She probably should fold her hands together like a good little Sunday school student, but instead she curled them into claws at her side. "Listen up," she said, her words rebounding on her. She felt stupid saying all this out loud, but she needed to get these thoughts out of her head, needed to pretend He'd hear them.

"I don't like you, and apparently you do not like me. But you win." In the distance, rats scratched at the walls. At least she hoped they were rats. "I don't know why you can't get your ass off your cloud and come fight this war yourself, but fine. I'll do it. I will be your Witness, I will figure this shit out, I will learn to use the weapons you gave me. And I will fight with everything I've got. Not for you, though. I want to be crystal clear on this: I am not fighting for you. I am fighting for this world you made." She snorted. "I'll give you that—you made one hell of a universe. And it is too awesome—in the Crane way, full of awe—to throw it away.

"But work with me here. You chose me for some reason, and you chose Crane for a lot of good reasons. So trust us. Let us do our jobs. Don't fuck with us, and we will find a way. Just..." It had been a long, long time since Abbie had asked God for anything. He'd made it clear that prayers didn't work that way. But maybe, just maybe, He'd listen now. "Please. Let us be ourselves. Let us  _stay_ ourselves. And I promise, we won't let you down."

There was no gust of wind, no burning bush, no pillar of salt. She hadn't really expected anything, but some kind of sign would've been nice. "Amen," she said, just to make it official. Still nothing. She stood, swiping at the damp patches on her knees. She felt microscopically better at least. And now that she'd made her appeal to the divine, it was time to get practical. She pulled out her phone.

"Jenny? Hey. Can you get down to the armory ASAP? Bring a couple fire extinguishers."


	41. Undiminished

_Do mind the rating._

* * *

 

"Pull!"

Miss Jenny fired her crossbow, and the holy power prickled to life. It was infinitely milder than the overbearing euphoria which had struck him upon his first use; it was simply a warm, comforting presence, the equivalent of a mug of tea on a cold day. When the quarrel reached its zenith, Miss Mills fastened her gaze upon it and the flames burned bright and white. It was transmuted to ash in an instant.

"Fine aim," he said.

"Thanks." Even she, as opposed as she was to this entire affair, could not conceal her smirk of pride. "You're up."

"You two should try it together," Miss Jenny said, resting the empty crossbow (where had she obtained such a thing? Even in his day they had hardly been available in every armory) on her shoulder. "It takes two to make a thing go right, y'know?"

"No, I do not know."

"I'll play you the song later," the lieutenant said. "How would that even work, doing it together?"

Her sister arched a salacious brow. "Well, sometimes when two people love each other very much, they-"

"A clever idea, and one worth exploring," Ichabod interrupted. While Miss Jenny's level head had proved invaluable, keeping them grounded and providing excellent suggestions for drills, she could not resist needling her sister. And her sister could not resist retaliating. At times like these, he was rather glad he lacked siblings. "It may prove fruitless, but it may also prove enlightening."

They had already learned so much. For instance, fire did not issue forth from their mouths, as scripture foretold—a fact for which he was profoundly grateful, as such an act surely would have singed his whiskers. Instead, it simply appeared where they wished it. They could extinguish the flames with another small exercise of will.

The lieutenant shook her hands like a pianist preparing to play a concerto. To her everlasting credit, she had borne their labors with grace and magnanimity, not once speaking a word of complaint though he knew she loathed the work. But she seemed to have made an uneasy truce with the power. When she had conducted her very first experiment, and found its spiritual effects significantly lessened, she had cast her eyes skyward, nodded, and gotten back about her work. Curiosity raged, but he did not pry. Perhaps later she would explain her hard-won peace.

"Probably won't work. But worth a shot," Miss Mills said. "Let's start with a stationary target, yeah?"

Miss Jenny thrust a short branch into the earth to serve as target and trotted to safety some paces away, her  _fire extinguisher_ at the ready. He and Miss Mills regarded each other uncertainly.

"So, we both just...go for it at the same time?" she asked.

"I suppose." Though they had completed this task separately a hundred times this afternoon, until the earth behind the cabin was scorched and singed leaves dangled from the trees, he was struck with a sudden timidity. It surprised him, then, when Miss Mills discretely extended her hand to him. Her eyes were still fastened on their goal, but the quiet invitation remained.

He brushed across her palm, the pads of his fingers catching on the callouses wrought by the grip of her pistol, the hilt of her sword. He engulfed her hand in his.

"Go ahead. Make all your jokes, Jenny. Let's just get this out of the way."

Miss Jenny yawned. "Finally."

Ichabod smothered a smile. Perhaps siblings were not such a trial, after all. "If we may proceed?"

"On three." She assumed a runner's stance, as if she might lunge toward the target. "One. Two." He reached for that font of power simmering just beneath his skin. Accessing it now required as little thought as squeezing a trigger. He held it, crackling in his breast like a cozy hearth, and waited for her mark. "Three."

His tongue sang with notes of honey and blackberry and salt. Then deep in his very bones, there was a  _vibration,_ trembling uncertainty and fear circling a solid, still core. It was purest Abbie, with all language and pretense stripped away until only the most essential remained. And oh, that distillation felt like nothing so much as it felt like home.

He was torn from his thoughts as his ears rang with a blast louder than the cannon bombardment at Fort Ticonderoga and ash-white flames raced toward them. The Witnesses crashed together, each attempting to bodily shield the other as the flames swept closer and-

The righteous fire of God tickled over them, cool and delicious. Tangled beside him, she was bathed in its beauty, glowing and burning like an angel, too glorious to behold with mortal eyes. It was not the fire that would consume him; it would be her terrifying, loving, beloved gaze. He pressed a hand to to her blazing cheek and that sense of her swelled, the fear never disappearing, but her nucleus of strength growing by the moment.

For the second time that day, he was unceremoniously blasted with stinging white foam. It smothered the bulk of the flames, and he sheepishly extinguished the rest, having quite forgotten that it was within his power to do so. Miss Jenny crashed to her knees, scraping fistfuls of foam from her sister's flesh.

"Jenny, Jenny, I'm okay. We're okay," Miss Mills soothed. "Look at me, I'm fine."

Miss Jenny stared disbelievingly at her sister's unblistered skin. "I was fifty feet away and my eyebrows are singed. I have never  _felt_ fire that hot."

Ichabod pushed himself upright. The foam left bits of dirt and detritus clinging to his skin in a most unpleasant way; his hair must be a veritable bird's nest. "It seems we still have much to learn. Together, it appears, our abilities are amplified, yet volatile."

"Uh, yeah. Look." Miss Jenny nodded toward their target. The stick, needless to say, was gone. But so was the earth where it had stood. A crater some three feet deep had been punched into the soil. Wisps of smoke drifted in the gathering twilight.

"It seems we have rather outdone ourselves." The physical effects of their experiment were the least of his concern. "Miss Mills, did you also experience-"

"Later." She was still lying bonelessly on the blackened earth, her eyes fixed heavenward. "I think we oughta call it a day for now."

His shoulders slumped. Then, she had experienced the same... _indwelling_ he had felt, that moment when the lines of their souls overlapped. And for her, nothing could be more invasive. It was irrelevant that it was not his doing or desire.

God had chosen his Witnesses well, and yet Ichabod feared His very power that would drive them apart.

Morosely, he assisted the ladies to their feet. They bade Jenny farewell, making plans to meet the next day to unravel the secrets of sanguine water. The Witnesses stood alone and weary in the gray light.

"Will you come in?" Politeness dictated that he inquire, but he could hear her answer ringing in his ears. "Need some time to clear my head. We'll talk tomorrow, okay?" she'd say. And he would nod and kiss her cheek and stumble to a cold bed, sleep evading him as he wondered how long until she withdrew from him entirely. He was already turning toward the door when she spoke.

"Yeah. Think I will."

* * *

 

Crane took the world's longest showers. She figured it was the novelty of the hot water, and she couldn't blame him for that. He'd offered her the first shower, pretty much insisted, but she'd just parked herself in front of the cold fireplace with a beer and told him to go on ahead. Too tired to argue, he had.

If she were smart, she'd be using this time to make her getaway. Get up, get in the car and just go. Anywhere, didn't matter. She could drive north, crossing that New York border for the first time in her life, and find a cabin in the woods almost but not quite like this one. New Hampshire, maybe—live free or die. Or she could go west, west, west, as far as she could go, and build a new life beside a new ocean. She could get a Tinder account, find a new guy every night and make it a point never to learn their names. She could disappear and lead a simple, easy life for what, six years? Yeah. Six years of quiet until hell found her again.

She was selfish enough to do it, too. And scared enough. Yeah, it would fuck over Jenny and Crane and Irving and the entire planet, but she would be safe. She wouldn't ever have to worry about whether her every thought and action was hurting someone else, whether it was damning the whole world. She could just drift through six last, empty, peaceful years.

Even a few hours ago, she'd always held that out as an option. Unlikely, but a last resort. She did love her escape hatches. But now, they had all slammed shut. Every last one of them.

Because the worst thing in the world had happened, and she had survived. Crane had seen everything. All her ugliness, all her fear, all her hopes. All of  _her._  She assumed that's what he'd felt, anyway. She was pretty sure that's what had happened to her when they both let their Witness mojo burn through them and her mouth filled with cream and lemons and sour green apples, when she'd felt the spark that could only be Crane fizzing inside her like Pop Rocks, tender and prickly at the same time. And even with that essence of Crane overlaid onto her own soul, she wasn't diminished. She was still Abbie Mills, just Abbie Mills  _plus._

And yes, God was still a fucker. She never would have invited Crane in like that, not in a million years. Certainly wouldn't have revealed herself to him, either. But for all His meddling, God hadn't dictated Crane's reaction, the way he felt more intensely  _Crane_  when he touched her.

She could sit here and rage at God, or she could go to the man who looked into her soul and loved her more.

She fortified herself with one last swig of beer and walked toward the bathroom. She looked a fucking mess, her hair defying gravity and her cheeks speckled with dirt. She smelled like fire extinguisher and burned hair. But it was the perfect moment. The  _only_ moment.

She left her clothes in a careless pile and slipped into the bathroom, steam coating her skin with dew. The top of Crane's head peeked over the shower curtain. He hummed to himself, some song that was almost familiar.

_Last chance._

She twitched the curtain open and realized she hadn't figured out what she was going to say. So she just stood there in naked silence.

He yelped, like she knew he would. His hands darted downward, but there was no hiding the fact that he was already at half mast. "Miss Mills! But I am-" His eyes widened as he saw her through the spray. "But you are..."

"Want me to go?" Her heart banged against her ribs. She'd been so focused on herself, been so sure she was ready, that she never stopped to think about whether this was the right moment for him. It had to be weird for him right? His wife—Christ, Christ, his  _wife—_ was barely cold in his grave and guys didn't just go around hooking up back in the olden days, did they? She'd never even considered that this might be rough on him, too.

But just now, Crane didn't seem to be considering any moral implications. He drank in every inch of her, his eyes darting around like he didn't know where to look first. "I shall never forgive you if you do."

She laughed and stepped into the water.

They danced in the tiny, slippery space, at once too close and not close enough, ending up with him against the back wall of the shower so he didn't hit his head on the nozzle. They pressed every inch of their bare flesh together as they kissed, his hands sliding down her sides, against the heavy swell of her breasts, against the gentle curve of her waist, at last clutching a huge double handful of her ass. She laughed against his mouth and reached for him, now flying at full staff against her belly, and but he grunted and shimmied his hips to the side.

"We've waited this long, Miss Mills. I see little need to rush the matter now."

With those long, long fingers, he washed away the dirt and the soot and the despair of the day. He sank to his knees and lapped at the water gathering in her belly button, nosed delicately at her little patch of curls and teasingly dragged a finger, then two, through her folds. She gasped and clutched at his head and suddenly understood why so many guys prefer long hair.

When the water ran cold, they scrambled out and collided together again, slick and laughing. They toweled each other dry—him first, paying particular attention to her breasts, the towel rough and aching against her nipples—then her, taking her sweet time, appreciating the v of muscles in his back, the way his chest hair frizzed as it dried. She knelt to dry the inner lines of his thighs, letting her fingernails graze here and there. In one long, languid motion, she slid the length of him into her mouth and marveled at the way his muscles jumped and shuddered. Then she stood and pushed him toward the bedroom.

The ancient bed groaned unhappily as they collapsed atop it. They tussled, so like their sparring and so very, very not like their sparring in any way. She wound up on top and bent to kiss him, but he looked up at her with a look so fucking  _sweet_ and  _knowing_ that she felt more naked than naked, wanted to cross her arms over her breasts like some embarrassed co-ed.

"Abbie." He brushed his fingers along the column of her throat, her jutting collar bone. "Why now? I welcome this, certainly, but after today, I was certain you would..."

"Run."  _Still thinking about it._ She kissed him, because if they were kissing they couldn't be talking. It was one of kissing's best features. But she knew he wasn't going to take a step farther until he had his answer. And he deserved one. He deserved everything. She leaned her forehead against his and closed her eyes. "Because you saw me, and  _you_ didn't run."

"And I never shall."

She wasn't sure she believed him. Could ever believe him. But he said it with such conviction, so much  _love_ (she wanted there to be another word for it, a word that didn't make her insides squirm, but it was the only word in the entire world that could even touch that assured tremble in his voice), that she was able to pretend, just for a minute, that he might be the one who would never leave.

She slid onto him and they each fought to control the pace, Crane going for soft and gentle, but she got fed up with that in a hurry and thrust herself onto him, fast and pounding until he clutched her ass for dear life. He exploded first, and though she was close, so close, she couldn't help but grin at his O-face, at the sight of him, for once, completely unselfconscious. She slid a hand between them, pressing just  _so_ against her clit, and followed him down.

Part of her had worried that God might meddle here too, that Witness orgasms came in a secret mystical flavor. But no, it was just a regular old toe-curling, name-calling, don't-let-this-end orgasm. And that was way more than enough. It wasn't the best sex she'd ever had, but it was her favorite. She'd never laughed so much or wanted so badly to make her partner happy. It would get better every time, as they each discovered the secret rhythms of their bodies.

She stretched on top of him as he wilted inside her, not willing to give up the feel of his skin just yet. He didn't hold her, though she knew he wanted to. He petted along her spine like she was a cat who might bolt out the door if he made the wrong move and whispered soft, pretty things in her ear.

She nuzzled against his shoulder and breathed him in, but all traces of his scent had been washed clean in the shower. They didn't smell like him, they didn't smell like her. They smelled like  _them,_ something new and different and maybe even better than either of them separately.

"So, you ready for round two?" She propped herself up on her elbows and smiled down at her drowsy Ichabod. "C'mon, you've got two centuries to make up for."

"Indeed, and yet the flesh is weak. Perhaps a moment more. Still-" In a sudden movement, he flipped her over, all traces of sleepiness gone. "There is no reason you should wait on account of my frailty."

She laughed yet again, and words gathered on the tip of her tongue, words she knew she should say, but...

She kissed him, and prayed he knew.


	42. Voluntary

Abbie eased the door shut, painfully aware of the squeak of the hinges, the bump as it settled into place. She ducked behind Officer Gregson—tallest guy in the department. Maybe the captain would think she'd just been hidden behind his tree-like frame. And that she hadn't heard her name called during roll.

It wasn't like Abbie had  _planned_ to be late again, but that banshee in Douglas Park had given no fucks about her report time. And it wasn't like she could just leave it there for another day; kids played in that park. Luckily it was a pretty easy take down—some salt, some yammering from Crane, a small ring of fire—but it still meant she was fifteen minutes late. And Captain Reyes had no patience for tardiness. Or Abbie.

When Reyes had first taken over for Irving, Abbie had tried to explain that Sleepy Hollow was a paranormal shitshow. Not all at once—she was not winding up in Tarrytown Psych, thank you very much. But hints. Judiciously leaving a few of Corbin's case files on her desk. Explaining that it was physically impossible for a guy to rip out his own throat with his own teeth like the coroner's report said. But the captain just looked at her like she'd stepped in something nasty and turned away.

She was even immune to Crane's crazy charm, his way of making the impossible seem all-too real. So Abbie was forced to come up with lies to cover for the insanity around them. It usually left her looking incompetent, like when she'd had to say a perp escaped, because Reyes would never believe that the guy had melted after Abbie pumped him full of silver rounds.

"Remember, we can't have quotas for our new stop and frisk policy," Reyes said. The officers tittered, but the captain's face was stone. "But I'm gonna be pretty pissed at anybody who comes back with less than five searches tonight. Okay? Now let's get out there and make a difference." Abbie hustled for the door, grateful to get out un-

"Mills, my office." And her hope withered and died a quick yet painful death. Abbie straightened her collar; a few grains of salt cascaded to the floor. Then she followed Reyes into Irving's office.

It was sterile box of a room. There were no pictures on the wall, no files over-flowing from her desk, no mound of phone messages. There was no evidence any work ever got done, but Abbie knew better. The captain was running a tight damn ship. Between the new and insane stop and frisk policy (most criminals in Sleepy Hollow didn't carry drugs or guns; they carried scythes and witchcraft) and the new paramilitary vehicles that were better suited for the streets of Baghdad than Tarrytown, she was a busy lady.

Abbie stood at parade rest in front of the immaculate desk. "Ma'am, I apologize for being late. It will not happen again." An easy lie.

Reyes stood perpendicular to her, facing her profile. "I have read your file, Lieutenant. I know your history. Juvenile offender with a tragic past turned heroic defender of the peace. Touching. I'm surprised they haven't written you up in the  _Daily Voice._ " Her breath tickled Abbie's ear, cool and cinnamon-y, and it took everything Abbie had not to step away. "I know you're used to being your CO's pet—first Corbin, then Irving."

Abbie's head jerked to the side. She caught a quick glimpse of Reyes' impassive face before she regained her composure. She'd heard the accusations before, after all. Whispers in the hall that she was a token, that she was here because of affirmative action, that maybe Corbin had more than a fatherly interest in her, if y'know what I mean. But that had just been the mouth-breathers on the force, the guys who would never get out of uniform, who would spend the next twenty years writing tickets and running out the clock until they could claim their pensions. Never from anyone who  _mattered._

"I have always enjoyed positive relationships with my superiors, ma'am. But I believe my performance record speaks for itself."

"It was impressive, once." Abbie shifted her weight from foot to foot and stared hard at the blank wall. It wasn't that she wanted a pat on the head for doing good work. But to hear that  _once_ she'd been a good officer and now that she was slightly distracted by saving the world she was a useless slacker? Yeah, that got under Abbie's skin. "I recall you were bound for Quantico. And yet here we are, still graced with your presence. But I have seen none of the heroism that's slathered across your file." Why was she standing so close? There was a whole, big office to stand in, yet here they were, still inches apart. "I have seen consistent tardiness, an unwillingness to participate in mandated stop-and-frisk activities, exposing a civilian to dangerous active crime scenes-"

Abbie swiveled her head to glare at the captain. "He is a consultant. His research has saved dozens of lives, he was instrumental in the rescue and recovery efforts during the Fourth of July attacks, and he is fully entitled to be here." She turned back to center, struggled to find some well of calm to draw from before she decked her CO. Reyes would probably love that. "With respect. Ma'am."

"Quite the hero, your Ichabod Crane." Finally, Reyes stepped away, and Abbie drew her first breath in what felt like hours. The captain slid into her seat and took a dainty sip from her Styrofoam coffee cup. "Is that why you're sleeping with him?"

The captain might as well have pelted her with a bucket of ice water. She should have known this town was too small for secrets. Abbie took a step back, struggling for a comeback, an excuse, a denial—shit, if Crane were here, he'd know what to say and do to make all this go away, have exactly the haughty rebuttal and the right eyebrow arch to get out of this. But it was just her, and she had nothing.

Reyes turned toward her computer screen. Her skin glowed sickly and pale in its dim light. "Your performance is unacceptable. Consider yourself on notice. If you are late to roll again, you will be riding a desk for the foreseeable future. If I hear that your  _boyfriend_ " -condescension dripped from the word and pooled at Abbie's feet- "is at the station or in your squad car, I will initiate demotion proceedings. Do you understand me,  _Lieutenant_?"

It was the beginning of the end and they both knew it. No matter how good Abbie was, no matter how closely she toed the line or how perfect she was, Reyes was going to find a way to force her out. It was hard to fire a cop; unions made sure of that. But she could make it so unpleasant or downright dangerous for Abbie that she'd have no choice but to resign. And then what? Being a cop was the only thing she was good at, the only thing that made sense in her life. And it wasn't like she could just move to another town and get a job on another force—she had to be  _here_ , in Sleepy Hollow.

And Crane—Jesus, how was she supposed to support Crane if she lost her job? He could get around town okay by himself now, but that didn't mean he could hold a job where he had to talk to regular people or use a computer or just generally not be a giant weirdo all day. It was all on her, and it was all slipping away.

"If you'll let me explain—If you'll just consider-"

"I have no interest in excuses. You are dismissed."

Abbie wanted to turn her coffee to blood. She wanted to watch the captain's face as she tasted the salty thickness and watch as she spit it out in a red geyser, her teeth stained and dripping. The power curdled under her skin, waiting. But instead, Abbie turned and slunk away like a beaten dog.

"I expect ten citations by end of shift."

"Ma'am."

* * *

 

"I am bursting with good news and am pleased to report a productive day." Crane bent and brushed his lips against her cheek, then leaned in for a longer, slower kiss. The sheaf of papers in his hand tickled her cheek. Even after several weeks, kissing him was still thrilling and foreign. She was still learning the terrain of his lips, the topography of his scratchy cheeks, the ebb and flow of his tongue. She wondered if it would always feel like this. She kinda hoped so. "And you? Did your toil prove fruitful?"

"My toils could use some good news." She'd issued a whopping four citations. And that had been a stretch. Two curfew violations, one public intox, and one "loitering" that was gonna bug her for a long, long time. But she'd needed something, and figured it was better to write up the kid in plaid shorts and boating shoes hanging around outside the country club instead of the sad huddle of folk trying to stay warm under the Route 9 Bridge. The captain hadn't been in the precinct when she'd clocked out, but Abbie would catch hell for it tomorrow.

"Then I shall delay no longer. Word from your sister is that Captain Irving is to be released on the morrow."

For one awesome moment, Abbie thought all her problems were solved. Irving was free, which was great, because Irving was innocent. It was great for Macey and Cynthia and Jenny, who had visited Irving more times than Abbie had. But maybe, just maybe, there was a chance he could be reinstated and send Captain Reyes far, far away, and maybe Abbie could hang onto her job by her fingernails so the Witnesses didn't have to start praying for manna from fucking heaven.

But it was a short moment of victory. "How is that possible? A court date was set. They were supposed to start picking jurors next week. The courts don't just suddenly let a dude charged with second degree murder go." Last she'd heard, Irving's lawyers were going to try to argue for a lesser charge: voluntary manslaughter. Their story was that Irving had found out Reverend Boland had been molesting Macey and killed him in a fit of passion. It was disgusting and unfair to the poor dead priest, but juries ate that kind of story up. And if it worked, Irving would be a free man in five years. Less with good behavior.

Crane's face fell, like she was a puppy who'd pissed all over the new chew toy he'd bought her. "I am no barrister, and have no answers to your queries. Perhaps Miss Jenny has more insight into the judiciary than I. I was merely pleased we will regain the aid of a good man and a valuable ally."

"No, I mean, I'm glad too, but-" There was no but. It didn't matter. She was just going to accept this one good thing and not ask questions. "That's great. Really good news. Can't wait to see him."

Crane fussed with one of the many scrawny plants peppered among the books and papers. They raided the bargain bin at the nursery every week and bought up everything cheap: Scraggly end-of-season herbs, undersized mums, an orchid that was just too pink, even a scrawny apple sapling sitting in a bucket and smelling like fall. He used them to practice spreading disease—a hideous, fast disintegration involving inky black spots and leaves that crumbled like ash. She had to hang around as a conduit--their range was about a hundred feet, they'd learned--but she never joined in. 

That was her one line in the sand: she would not use their ability to become a walking plague machine. She acknowledged it was probably there for a reason, completely understood that she probably  _should_ be there with him, making those plants sicken and wilt and fade. But every time she reached for that odd, yellowy shade of their power, she remembered the bug-like eyes of the Black Horse. Famine's horse. If she used that power to make people suffer, to destroy them slowly and agonizingly rather than with mercy and swiftness, how was it any different than if she'd saddled up?

In her book, it wasn't. And Crane understood that. Well, understood it like eighty-five percent. Okay, maybe eighty. At any rate, he respected it, and that's what mattered.

He finally plucked a bruised purple blossom from a leggy mum and offered it to her, twirling it between his fingers. "Will you tell me why you were in such dire need of good news?"

She took the sad little flower and sniffed it. Mums always smelled like death to her, like cheap bouquets in cheap funeral homes and Jenny crying and Abbie trying so hard not to cry and a cardboard box of ashes because it was cheaper than a burial. But Crane didn't know that, so she tucked the flower behind her ear, and he smiled. "The captain was on my ass again. Something about her...well, she hates me, so that's part of it, but something about her isn't normal. She's like a shark, doesn't blink enough. But I'll get through it." She should tell him the rest. She knew that. But she needed him to stay focused on the big picture—finding and defeating the last Horseman. She was in charge of logistics, and she'd figure this out, one way or another.

Crane's eyes narrowed, and he was off, scrambling for his overwhelming pile of books. How he ever found anything in there was a mystery to her. But after a few minutes of muttered cursing—well, she guessed "odds bodkins!" and "God's teeth!" were curses—he came up with a teeny tiny book, no bigger than a matchbook. He cleared his throat theatrically. "'The rider crowned in righteousness shall conquer the land. Pestilence and plague shall spring forth at his command, and the pious will be battered beneath the hooves of the white horse.'" Crane glanced up, punching a finger into the air. "Nothing we don't already know, yes.  _But—_ 'He shall be clothed in the garments of peace. Those who follow him shall believe they take up arms for order, yet shall sow chaos across the land.'" He snapped the book closed and jutted his chin like he was waiting for a cookie.

She got what he was getting at, but was pretty sure he was also insane. "Are you trying to say Reyes is Conquest?"

"Don't scoff at me. The theory is hardly outside the realm of possibility."

"Nobody's scoffing. Okay, maybe a half scoff. But just because I don't like her—and I can't tell you enough how much I don't like her—doesn't mean she's evil." Honestly, it would be too damn easy. Her problems were rarely solved that neatly.

"We could at least explore the possibility. Or, rather, I could. It would not be wise for you to be seen sniffing about the captain's business. But I-"

"-stand out like a sore thumb and suck at subterfuge. No offense." For the umpteenth time, she wondered how he hacked it as a spy. The man could not keep a secret to save his soul. But more than that, he couldn't go to the precinct. Period. "I'll do it. Ask the guys, call some of her previous employers and see what's up. Best lead we've got. In the meantime, you can keep looking into how we defeat the Horseman, whoever she is."

"Firstly, I reserve my right to take offense, thank you very much." He gave her that snooty smile that really meant he was trying not to laugh, and her lips twitched. "But it shall be as you say. Though it seems you take the king's share of our burden. I wish there were more I could do to be of assistance."

Just fucking around had been so much easier. She never had to consider that the guy might have had a bad day at the office or was working through his issues about being a man out of time. She could just make  _mhmm  _noises and offer to call him a cab. With Crane, she couldn't do that, even though all she wanted was to go home alone and sit with a beer in front of the TV and worry. To draw up contingency plans and double contingency plans and If Shit Gets Really Real plans. To figure out worst case scenarios and then plan for scenarios twice as bad as those. She wanted to give in to her fear, just for one night.

But while scratching that itch until she bled a little might feel good, it wasn't what she needed. And it wasn't what he needed. While she'd never had to care about her booty call's feelings, they'd never cared about hers, either. And Crane did—hell, sometimes she was sure he cared more about her feelings than she did. So how could she send him home alone to worry that he was worthless, that he wasn't contributing enough, that he'd never catch up to the world around him?

She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his waist—his shoulders were too damn high—and smiled. "You could take me back to my place, make me dinner, and then make me forget my own name. That would help a lot."

He took one of those hands from his waist and raised it to his lips, his eyes locked on hers. He bent over her hand and softly, so softly she wasn't sure he actually made contact, brushed his lips across her skin. "I can think of no higher calling."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry we had to shovel some plot this week, kiddos. More action to come-but after a brief pause. No new chapter next week. Might I suggest you check out some of JWAB's excellent Sleepy Hollow fic, like "Point of No Return," in the interim?


	43. The Mustard Seed

"We were wrong. I'll say it again, so there's no confusion: We were wrong about Frank Irving." The prosecutor jabbed four fingers at the small crowd of journalists and well-wishers. Beads of perspiration gleamed on his pink pate. "I want it to be clear that we are not dropping charges because we think he's guilty but can't make a case. It is because we are one hundred percent convinced of his innocence. And we're sorry."

"You didn't tell me this was gonna be a thing," Miss Mills muttered to her sister.

"Didn't know. Weird hearing a cop apologize."

"He's not a cop. And we do apologize, but not like-"

"Hush," Ichabod admonished. Whether this was standard protocol or no, he overflowed with pride as he watched the judiciary take full responsibility for its mistakes. They had so longingly dreamt of an independent legal system, unburdened by external interests and dedicated to the rigorous pursuit of truth and justice. Certainly no system could be perfect; all courts are composed of men, who are fallible. But to hear them wholeheartedly acknowledging the error of their ways and seeking to remedy them? Oh, it made him glad.

And today was a day for gladness, despite Miss Mills' concerns over the scale of the proceedings. Mrs. Irving (or, he supposed, the former Mrs. Irving, though she still used the appellation and obviously still cared deeply for her former spouse) glowed with happiness. As did Miss Jenny, he could not but notice. However, Miss Macy seemed oddly withdrawn, staring into her lap, speaking hardly at all when he made overtures. Likely shy in the flash of the press'  _cameras_ , he decided.

"Let's get Frank out here. You've waited too long for this. Frank?" the prosecutor called over his shoulder.

The door opened, and Miss Mills arched her back and gasped. A breath later, Ichabod understood why as the geyser of holy power within him erupted. It seethed insistently just under the surface of his skin, demanding egress. It pulsed in his fingertips and buzzed in the back of his throat and pressed at his eyes, as if it sought to escape through his very tears. His will was the only stopper keeping it from flooding out—and he was unsure what would occur if he faltered, if the sky would rain blood or, God forbid, fire and plague should overtake the room. Beside him, Miss Mills gritted " _no_ " through a locked jaw.

Applause erupted as Captain Irving stepped from the door. The other captain, Reyes, followed. But Ichabod could pay them no heed. He clenched tight, every muscle in his body pushed to its breaking point as he fought to contain the devastation. He imagined his skin growing thick and impenetrable as a turtle's shell, imagined the power flowing backward like a river reversing its course. It helped, somewhat—the awful pressure did not dissipate, but it lessened, sullenly searching for any chink in his armor.

"What the fuck, guys?" Miss Jenny whispered.

He locked eyes with the lieutenant, her face a rictus of strain. "Stay. Make our apologies," he told Miss Jenny. Then as one, the Witnesses turned and fled through the crowd, caring not a whit for the odd looks and " _hey, watch it"_ s offered as they made their hasty retreat.

The power altered its tactics, transforming the almost-pain into an insidious pleasure, the moment just before release. He could simply let go and end this awful tension and transcend to something better, purer, more wonderful than he could imagine. He stumbled, quite ready to reverse course, but Miss Mills was on his heels, pushing against his back, repeating something he couldn't quite make out but which gave him enough presence of mind to keep running, to fumble through the doors and stagger into the oppressive glare of the noonday sun.

With one last howl, the power dwindled. It still sang at a roiling boil instead of its usual quiet simmer. But it was enough to restore his reason.

"What in God's name was that?" Ichabod demanded, more of God than of her. Yet she had an answer.

"Reyes. Fucking  _Reyes,_ " she snarled. She was bent double, her hands resting on her knees as she drew in shaky lungfuls of air.

An incomprehensible answer, but an answer nonetheless. "Explain."

"It started right when she showed up. Door opened, boom, Reyes, boom, Witness juice goes haywire. That's not an accident."

The remnants of power tugged at his attention, made him feel dull and slow. He could not follow her logic. "What are you suggesting, precisely?"

She straightened and looked back at City Hall with evident disgust. "Reyes tracks with the fourth Horseman. We already had some suspicions—this confirms it. Why else would God want us to unleash all hell at the  _exact_ second she appeared?"

Ichabod closed his eyes and relived the scene. He reviewed every aspect in as much detail as he could: the woman in the red dress beside him yawning, Macy's downcast eyes, the burnt coffee smell in the air. Then the door opened, and...it was not Reyes who emerged first. Or alone.

A mustard seed of doubt took root. "Why now? You were in the captain's presence only yesterday; we consulted with her on that nasty boggart incident less than a fortnight past. Not a flicker."

She gave a violent shrug. "I don't know. Ask God. Maybe she just saddled up last night and got the evil Horseman t-shirt. Maybe that was just our best shot at getting her. Does it matter?"

It did matter. And she knew that. She was too clever to believe in coincidences and too fair-minded to condemn a woman without sufficient evidence. Yet she was only human and blinded by her personal animosity. Certainly Ichabod had no fondness for the cold captain who ignored him at best and at worst belittled his theories as "far-fetched, overly dramatic, and too stupid to even address." But her appalling manners did not mean she was a manifestation of evil. "We mustn't rush to judgment. There were too many other people in the room, and too many other factors. We must be deliberate."

"We got a sign from God, Crane. Literally. Telling us to use these powers you love so much, the ones you're always telling me to  _trust_. And now you're dicking around when we could end this." Her voice trembled with emotion, and oh, he wished her words could be true. That the obvious threat was the true threat. That Reyes could be put down with a great outpouring of sacred might. That they could quash hell's rebellion and build a life together pursuing that lovely American Dream Miss Mills had told him of. That they could live quiet lives of purpose and die just as quietly in their bed decades hence.

But God's chosen are rarely permitted such luxuries. And while they had never spoken of those last few lines of prophecy deep in Revelation, they both knew what awaited them in the years to come.

"You know the Horsemen are only the advance guard. Don't you?" He ducked his head to meet her eyes, but she refused. "You know there are six years more. And you know that in the end, we will-"

"Don't believe everything you read," she snapped, but her shoulders sagged and that steeliness ebbed away. She pressed a tiny, firm hand against his breast, just over his heart. "We're free to choose our own destiny, right? Maybe we can change all of it. Henry said our Witness magic bullshit was 'years out of season.'" He flinched at the name, but if she noticed, she did not react. "If we work fast, maybe we can rewrite our ending."

To hear Miss Mills express such hope was a rare and precious thing. It would be easy to be carried along by that feverish wanting. For the second time that day, his resolve wavered. "I pray with all my heart that it may be as you say." He covered her hand with his and forced himself to do what he needed to do instead of what he achingly wished he could do. "But regardless of what our future holds, our present success hinges upon uncovering the true Horseman. We haven't enough evidence yet to condemn Captain Reyes. We must avoid rushing to judgment like the foolhardy prosecutor, yes?"

She opened her mouth, a querulous crease between her brows, but it smoothed away and was replaced with a deep weariness. "Look at us. You wanting to slow down and think things through, me wanting to rush in with guns blazing. Is it opposite day?"

He understood the rhetorical flourish; it was hardly difficult to divine. But he fashioned his features into a bemused frown. "Is that a holiday of some fashion?"

Her laugh was a precious reward. "Okay. You win for now. I'm gonna go talk to some of the guys at the station. Engage in some casual breaking and entering. I want you back at the armory digging up more dirt on the fourth Horseman and how to beat her ass. I'll have to catch up with Irving later...I really wanted to see him." She sighed, but quickly cast off her wistfulness. "Plan sound cool?"

"Cool," he confirmed.

With a hand flung up in farewell and a spine as straight as a ramrod, she strode off without a parting word, let alone a kiss. She did so hate goodbyes. Did she never consider that each parting could be their last? Or perhaps she knew that all too well and chose to walk away with confidence rather than dwell on what-ifs. He watched as she traveled the short distance across the lot to the police outpost and disappeared within.

Then he walked back into City Hall.

She would be furious when she learned of his duplicity. And with good reason. But he needed to take Reyes' measure for himself. Some things could not be gleaned from books or from second-hand interviews, and he feared Miss Mills' presence could only prove a distraction. He prayed she would forgive him.

Once inside the building, the power surged weakly, like the last wave of an inbound tide. The crowd for the ceremony had dissolved, save for a few members of the press packing their lights and  _cameras_ and long furred sticks whose use he could not begin to divine.

"Pardon me," he asked a woman with aggressively shiny and immobile hair, "have you seen Captain Reyes? Or perhaps know which direction she might have gone after the ceremony?"

"Why're you asking?" the lady in question asked from over his left shoulder. He stiffened and prepared to be dragged into the undertow once again, but there was nothing. Not the slightest flicker of power.

The mustard seed began to grow.

He thanked the confused woman and turned to face the captain. She was sturdy but small, perhaps a bit taller than the lieutenant, though that was no particular accomplishment. Everything about her spoke of discipline and control, from her slicked hair to her shuttered expression to the way she stood still as a Hessian soldier. No trace of emotion marred her face; no twitching hands exposed her nerves. Ichabod found himself grasping the edge of his trousers so he did not fidget.

"I had hoped I might steal but a moment of your time, Captain. I know this must be a complicated day for you, with Captain Irving's return, but-"

"Come," she barked. Without a backward glance, she marched from the central rotunda off into a quieter corridor. Like a new recruit at his first muster, he followed in bewildered silence. She stepped into a room that proved to be some sort of quartermaster's storage, stinking of chemicals and filled with roll after roll of  _toilet paper._ She pulled the door shut behind him, and Ichabod was acutely aware of his lack of weaponry. This had only been intended to be a brief, mundane outing, and Miss Mills alone had carried a firearm. A stupid, green mistake. "What happened with you two out there?"

"The, ah, rather, I found myself feeling faint. The lieutenant was kind enough to-"

"We can stop lying to each other, Mr. Crane. I know who you are, and who she is. And I could have spotted that off-the-charts power from a mile away. I thought you two were going to blow," she said with a matter-of-fact air as his jaw dangled toward the floor.

"You-"

"Knew Lieutenant Mills' mother. That is all you need to know. But  _I_ need to know what happened out there."

He sternly reminded himself that her knowledge did not exculpate her. If anything, it could be evidence of her guilt. "Speak the words aloud. What are we?"

Her lip curled with impatience. "You are the lampposts and the olive trees, the chosen Witnesses of God. I think He could have done better, but He didn't ask for my recommendations. Now talk."

"Not without a sign of good faith from you. If you knew who we were and what we were doing, why have you insisted upon harassing the lieutenant at every turn? Why have you hampered her work, which you knew to be holy?"

Something about the captain's face softened the faintest fraction. "Like I said, I knew Lori. She gave me this." From beneath her blouse, she withdrew a small cross. It appeared to be carved from ebony, gleaming blackly in the storeroom's dim light. Surely if she were a Horseman, she could not abide such a symbol of the Lord. "I expect excellence from her daughter in all things."

Ichabod hummed with questions, but forced the lion's share aside. These secrets were not his to unravel. "Very well. At the precise moment the door opened to grant entrance to you and Captain Irving, there was, as you deduced, a tremendous swell in power. It was impossible to endure, so we fled to a safe distance until we could contain it."

She watched him with unmoving eyes. He willed her to blink, to grant him a respite, but she just stared. "Has this happened before?"

"No. But everything is still quite...new. Every day seemingly brings new revelations, if you will pardon the pun."

"Interesting. It could be caused by any number of things, in theory. Astrological conditions, a solar flare, a major development in the end of days almost anywhere on the globe. I'll have my people look into it." She had  _people_? Her officers? Or others? Who? And how many? And why? And- "In the meanwhile, you two need to lay low. If it happens again and you can't contain it, there's no telling how many civilians you might take out by accident. God doesn't much care about collateral damage. But I do."

Was she another agent of the Lord? She spoke of him with disdain, but then, so did the lieutenant. A witch, perhaps? Or something heretofore unseen? "How can you sense our power?" he demanded. "Who are you?"

"That information is only available on a need-to-know basis. Right now, you do not need to know." She raised a hand to smooth her perfectly smooth hair. "I will tell you what I am not: your friend. But fate has made us allies, and I will do what I can to assist you."

It was little wonder that his partner had seen sinister signs in this infuriating woman. "Good God, Captain, Miss Mills and I are as the blind leading the blind. If you wish to assist us, speak. Tell us what you know and let us combine our forces."

"Stay out of my way," she said. "And stay out of my department or I will make good on my promise to Miss Mills, apocalypse or no. Do we have an understanding?"

"Not in the slightest. What do you mean, your promise to Miss Mills?"

"Tell her. She'll know." The captain tucked her cross back beneath her shirt and straightened her cuffs. His phone buzzed against his hip. He jumped in surprise—only a little, but enough for the captain to give a sneer of contempt. "Have her call me if it happens again." And then she was gone, leaving Ichabod alone amongst the cleaning solvents and the mopsticks.

He fumbled the phone to his ear. "You may cease your inquiries. Captain Reyes, while abominable, is not our rider," he blurted.

Her labored breathing rang in his ear. "Miss Mills? Are you there? Abbie-"

"I know it's not her," she said at last. "We—I- had the wrong captain. It's Irving."


	44. Then There Was Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two important bits of news:
> 
> 1\. No new chapter again next week (and apologies for my lateness this week, though it wound up being SUPER LONG to make up for its tardiness). Life's been a bit busy, and while I had hoped to wrap up before the new season, it looks like we'll spill over a bit. Hope you'll still come visit me even when you have tantalizing new episodes.
> 
> 2\. JWAB's "Point of No Return" has updated at long last. It's the best fic in the Sleepy Hollow fandom, and if you're not reading it, I feel sorry for you.
> 
> With that said, let's get down to it.

In a day filled with nightmarish newness, the sheriff's department was comforting in its sameness. There were some changes she couldn't ignore—a few pieces of extra body armor, new signs explaining the stop and frisk policy—but the bones were the same, from the laminate floor that squeaked under her boots to the smell of burnt coffee and flop sweat. But for all its familiarity, the department didn't feel like home any more.

Once upon a time, Corbin had had to pry her out of here every night. She would sit up in the dark, quiet hours after her shift, poring over cold case files. Since back in those days Sleepy Hollow had lived up to its name, that mostly meant burglaries and shoplifting. But she'd watched grainy surveillance footage in exacting detail, memorized the police reports, searched for clues and connections until the old man flicked off the light and told her to go the hell home, we'll catch the bad guys tomorrow. Jesus, it was almost a year without him now. She should lay some flowers on his grave.

She knew she'd never get around to it.

It would be easy to blame the new, ill-fitting vibe of the department on his death. Or hell, even Irving's arrest. Say that it was the people around her who'd changed. But it wouldn't be true. She'd outgrown this place, thought she could offer something bigger to the world than putting away DUIs and helping old ladies cross the street. That stuff was important, but Abbie thought she was special, that she could be a new Clarice Starling, badass and smart and tough as nails. She'd known she was made for a higher calling.

Ha.

Now she missed the little stuff, the one pep talk that could help a kid turn everything around, the one wake up call that helped a mom get her shit together. What she was doing now was big, but it was impersonal. Cold. She rarely got to look into the face of the people she was saving; she just had to remember it was  _the whole world._

It's not easy picking a lock while surrounded by a swirl of Sleepy Hollow's finest, but somehow Abbie managed and let herself into Reyes' office. There wasn't much time; the press conference would be over any second. The captain's desktop held only an empty blotter and a brass nameplate. Abbie hurriedly rifled through the drawers.

Middle drawer: Pens, three black and two red, laid out with military precision. Post-It Notes, variety of colors.

Right drawer: One apple (Red Delicious), one lighter (Bic), one silver letter opener. The fuck.

Left top drawer: Hanging file folders, all empty, one-

Abbie clutched at her temple as the power convulsed to life. Fainter this time, but worse, so much worse because it had nowhere to go, couldn't escape without Crane to complete the circuit because apparently God liked building His weapons  _dumbly_. It pushed against her skull with constipated rage until she thought her head would crack open like a walnut and paint the walls gray and red.

It could only mean one thing: Reyes was coming and Abbie was trapped and her power was going haywire and oh Jesus she was fucked. She staggered toward the door, hoping against hope that maybe she could slip out before Reyes got here and killed her (or worse, fired her), but just two steps from freedom, the door swung open.

Irving stepped into the room. Their eyes locked. The power hurled itself against the barrier of her skin one last time and Abbie couldn't help but let out a grunt of pain. But then it was gone, back to whatever part of her soul it usually hung out in when it wasn't trying to make her explode. She leaned heavily against the captain's desk and hoped the world would stop spinning soon.

"Do I even want to know what you're doing here?" he asked mildly. She laughed, so fucking relieved it was him and that the leaky gush of power had stopped  that she could almost cry.

There was still a decentish chance she might puke or faint or both, so she kept her mouth shut, clutched onto the desk, and looked him over. His hair was smattered with gray. New wrinkles were chiseled deeply into his face, laugh lines overshadowed by drooping parentheses around his mouth and a deep valley between his eyebrows. He walked like an old man, with careful steps and stooped shoulders, his arms curled protectively around his midsection.

It was her fault he'd been in there so long. If she'd only been...but she hadn't. And he was out now, and that was what mattered. "It's good to see you, Captain. Is, uh, is Reyes around?"

He shook his head. "Lucky for you, no. But she was on her way over here, so let's go somewhere a little more secure."

If Reyes wasn't here, why had Abbie gotten a mini-aneurism? Maybe she'd come into the building and then left? Or had Abbie been wrong, maybe the crazy power surges didn't have anything to do with Reyes or the Horsemen. Or maybe...fuck, she was just throwing spaghetti at the wall and hoping something stuck. She should've known she couldn't trust the power. Why couldn't God just neatly identify the Horseman with a blinking neon arrow or something? One more bone to pick with the big man. Fuck it. For now, focus on Irving. Focus on her mission. Then get back to Crane and figure this shit out.

They walked from the office—Irving locked it behind them, they must've given him his keys back—and she followed him into an empty interrogation room. He turned to her with a smile and held out his hand. Normal people probably would've hugged at a time like this, but she was glad neither of them were normal people. She clasped his hand tightly and he pumped it once, twice, three times, his other hand resting on her elbow, his face still frozen in a static smile. "You're a sight for sore eyes, Mills." Her hand turned clammy inside his, but still he didn't let go. Okay, maybe a hug would have been less weird.

Abbie pulled away gently. "I know, I know. I should've made it up to see you more often. I'm sorry." She started to offer an excuse but she let it go. Didn't matter why she hadn't been there, she hadn't been. "How long you been out?" Abbie flipped one of the aluminum chairs around and sat astride it, arms resting on its back.

Irving leaned against the wall. "Don't worry about it. Got out last night. Needed some rest before the big press conference today."

"Yeah, that all was weird. How'd you get Van Houten to eat so much crow?"

He shrugged. "Guess his conscience got the better of him. He knew I hadn't done anything wrong."

Abbie wasn't sure the prosecutor even  _had_ a conscience, but it made as much sense as anything else. She scratched absently at the back of her hand. "Maybe. But how'd you get out? I heard jury selection was coming right up. I can't remember the last time I heard about charges being dropped so close-"

"Lieutenant," he said in that way that made her sit up a little straighter. "I really want to put all this behind me. Why don't you catch me up on what's gone down with you and Crane since I've been up the river?"

_Well, I took a vacation in Purgatory, Crane had a nice dirt nap, his son was evil (don't worry, he's_ super  _dead), I almost became an apocalyptic Rider, we spend all our free time practicing lighting things on fire, and oh yeah, we're "courting" now. No big deal._

"There's been kind of a lot." Her hand tingled like it was falling asleep. She shook it out as inconspicuously as she could. "I guess the two big things you need to know are that we're hot on the tail of the fourth Horseman—Pestilence or Conquest, depending on who you ask—and that Crane and I have these new...abilities, I guess, that are going to help us take her down."

Irving raised his eyebrows. "Her?"

Maybe Abbie shouldn't have said that when they weren't positive (when  _Crane_ wasn't positive), but it slipped. And c'mon, this was Irving. "What do you know about Lena Reyes?"

"Not a lot. She grew up here, went to school here, then blew town." Irving's eyes wandered over the room as he talked, meeting hers for only a second before glancing over his shoulder or peering into the dusty corners of the room. She'd seen that look before, seen it in her sister's eyes. Maybe that was why they'd bonded so much: they both knew what it was like to live in a cage. "Think she was in the city for a while, then spent some time in D.C., I think. Record of getting stuff done and pissing people off. I met her for the first time today. Seems competent."

"Yeah, well, she might be competent at ending the world, too."

"Huh." Irving turned toward the huge mirror that dominated the western wall. Under the harsh glare of the interrogation lights, he seemed even more shriveled and shrunken, his suit hanging limply from his shoulders. "So if she is the Horseman—Horsewoman, excuse me—what happens then? What do you do?"

"We took down War with one of our new Witness powers, blood into water. Same thing could work on her. Or maybe it'll be fire that takes her down. Or fight pestilence with pestilence, maybe." She hoped it wasn't the last one. But it could be. "Once we're sure, we'll make our move."

He was quiet, his hands shoved into his pockets, his head bowed. "I'm coming back onto the force, you know. With the uptick in crime, we're gonna try co-captaining, at least for the short-term."

"Good. You can get close to her, get dirt we won't be able to. You can be our eyes and ears." Abbie smiled grimly. Perfect. Not even free a whole day, and already Irving was a huge help in this fight. "We missed you a lot, Captain. Jenny especially."

"She's been good to me." He raised his head and watched her face in the mirror.

Abbie shifted in her seat as the silence stretched. The tingling in her hand was getting worse, almost burning now. She flipped back through her day—she hadn't touched any weird chemicals, hadn't even been hosed down with a fire extinguisher today. She'd put some cortizone on it later. "How's Macy?"

"Reminds me of Jenny, actually. She wouldn't go along with our defense strategy." He rubbed his hands together. "Wouldn't lie and say Reverend Knapp touched her. Wanted to tell the  _truth._ "

Abbie winced even though she knew he wasn't rebuking her, that he didn't even know about most of the shit between Jenny and her. Probably. Still smarted, though. But something here wasn't adding up. Lot of somethings, actually. "With respect, I know you said not to ask, but if Macy didn't give some kind of grand jury testimony, then how are you exonerated? How are you  _free_?"

Irving rolled his shoulders back and stood up straight for the first time. "Man came to me in prison. Funny, but I can't remember anything about him now. Not his name, not what he looked like, not the sound of his voice. Maybe it wasn't even a man. Funny." Abbie wasn't finding any of this very funny. "Said he knew I was innocent, and he could make sure everyone else knew I was, too. But what he wanted me to give...I couldn't do it. Not even to be there to see my baby girl grow up. So I sent him away."

A prickle of danger coursed down Abbie's spine. She stood and quietly unsnapped the restraining strap on her sidearm.

"He came back a few days later with a new offer. Said not only could he clear my name, but he could make Macy walk again and keep her safe, no matter what happens. Give her a new start, give me a chance to fix my mistakes and let her live the life she was always meant to have."

"Irving." As she reached for her gun, she caught a glimpse of her right arm. There, right where he'd held her hand for too long, an angry red boil erupted. As she watched, it split open with the most awful  _tearing_ sensation and green pus oozed like lava. "What did you do?"

"Tomorrow's the day my baby's gonna walk again." His eyes were steady and sad in the mirror. They never left hers. "I just had to show a sign of good faith. A sign that I'm gonna hold up my end of the bargain and ride."

Reyes hadn't walked onto that stage alone. Irving had been with her. Irving, who she hadn't seen since the Witness powers started. Irving, who loved his daughter more than he loved the whole world.

She should shoot him. She should scream and try to rally the department. Should reach for the power and pray that God could give her some kind of extension and throw her a fucking bone even though Crane wasn't here. But she was heavy, so heavy, like someone had turned gravity up to eleven. She slid to the floor.

His shiny shoes came to rest beside her. "I'm sorry it had to be you. I really am."

She'd been in those shoes. She'd had the choice to damn the whole world, just so she'd be safe. So she wouldn't be alone. She'd been ready to do it, too. But when forced to make the choice, somehow she'd been strong enough (Crane had  _helped_ her be strong enough) to say no. Irving was weak. And Irving had failed them all.

Abbie spit a fat loogie on the gleaming mirrored shoes. "Save your sorrys. I will goddamn  _kill_ you."

"Almost wish you would. But not this time. Goodbye, Lieutenant."

The shoes disappeared, and she couldn't just let him  _walk_ out like some supernatural Typhoid Mary. She fumbled for her gun but her right hand was stiffening under the weight of the pustules that kept popping up like Whack-a-Moles and she couldn't grasp the butt and he was gone.

_Fast._ It was all happening so fast. Her insides had been scooped out and replaced by glaciers and geysers. She shivered and sweated.

_Goodbye, Lieutenant._

With her (as yet) untainted hand, she managed to grab her phone and mash in Crane's number. It rang once, twice, three times.  _Answer_. There were so many things she needed to say, needed him to hear, and she knew she couldn't say them to a voicemail, knew he'd  never-

"You may cease your inquiries. Captain Reyes, while abominable, is not our rider," he snitted.

There were pocks on her palm. A trickle of blood spooled from under a fingernail. But just hearing his voice, even at its pissiest, made it all matter a little less. She just wanted him to keep talking, to let that warm voice lull her off to sleep...

"Miss Mills? Are you there? Abbie-"

Abbie shook herself. No. Not yet. "I know it's not her." The pain was worse now, pulsing white behind her eyelids with every beat of her heart. "We—I- had the wrong captain. It's Irving."

She wondered if he might gloat. Crane loved a good I-told-you-so more than anyone she knew. But his voice was gentle and urgent. "Are you safe? Where are you? I shall come to you at once."

"You can't. He's counting on you to do that. I—I'm sick, Crane." Her arm was lined with bumps. One by one, they burst until her skin was slick with smelly green globs of poison. She knew without a doubt that one breath of the same air and Crane would be a goner, too. And he couldn't go out that way. A man who had cheated death as many times as he had couldn't die in a sickbed. She refused to accept that fate for him. "You have to stop him. Okay? It's up to you. He just left the station. He's going to go to Macy. If you find her, you'll find him."

"The devil take Irving.  _Where are you_?" She heard pounding feet and panting breath and she lurched upright. She couldn't let him find her, touch her, hold her, save her.

"You need to get Jenny. I know she's got some thing for Irving, but she'll do the right thing once she knows the truth. She'll help you take him down." The world flared with strange colors with every labored step. She was too slow; he'd catch up to her. She moved faster, hunched over and gasping. No one even seemed to notice her zombie-like dash. Men and women she'd fought beside stared through her. "Tell her I'm sorry. That I wish we'd had more time. Tell her that for me."

"You shall tell her yourself, once you are feeling better. I think you'll find I have a wonderfully strong constitution, having survived both yellow fever  _and_ two bouts of dysentery." His words were light; his voice was not. "Please, I am coming for you. There can be no quarrel on that account. Just be still."

Abbie clattered into the darkness of the tunnels. The moist air felt like heaven on her overheated skin. She could get lost here, find someplace cool to curl up and ride this out or...or...

"Crane, let's be real. When Pestilence touches you, you don't get better."

"I refuse to accept defeat. And if our positions were reversed, you would do the same. Your modern medicine is a marvel. There must be something— _Penicillin, Advil,_ something that can conquer this." She could hear the italics as he spoke the unfamiliar words.

"Modern medicine hasn't seen anything like this." She was slowing down. The boils crawled up her arm; they held her phone away from her face as they reached her cheek and breathed fire through her brain. "Just listen. Don't argue with me, don't tell me there's another way, just listen." Even now, even at her last chance, she was still afraid she would puss out. But he deserved to hear this, to know it, to believe it. She just wished she could see him when she said it, the shy little-boy smile contrasted with his heated eyes. He wouldn't even need to say the words back; they were written all over his face every time he looked at her. "I should've told you earlier. I should've told you every day, every second."

"Abbie, stop."

A pock swelled to life on her right eyelid; it burst and the nasty fluid stung her eye and the world went half dark. She swallowed a whimper. One foot in front of the other. Keep going. Keep him safe. Get the words out while you can. "Crane, I l-"

"You will speak those words to my face, Grace Abigail," he said sternly. "You will speak them because you choose to, not because you fear you will never have the opportunity. Hold your tongue and hold your courage. I am coming."

She wanted to tell him  _no,_ that now was her only chance, that he didn't understand the way the world was blinking and her heart was going too fast and too slow at the same time. She wanted to tell him to shut up and listen to every true thing she'd never found the guts to say but now the pustules were in her mouth, coating her tongue with green foulness and everything  _hurt_ and couldn't she lie down, just for a minute, just to catch her breath, just to-

She didn't remember falling, but she remembered the howling pain as her body struck the flagstones and a hundred boils ruptured. The phone went flying. Crane was gone. She was alone in the darkness. Once, twice she tried to stand, but her legs had given up the fight.

More things she should have told him taunted her. Practical things: Make sure to burn her body. Don't touch Irving. Not to blame himself. Her fingers scrabbled for the phone, but the pustules in her mouth swelled, raced down her throat and grew together until no matter how she strained and gasped, there was no air for her. Clawed hands dragged her down a deep, inky well. She fell.

And fell.

And fell.

Then there was light.

It scorched her eyes and she wanted to scream until the whole universe knew how much this  _hurt,_ but if you can't breathe you can't scream. She pressed her face to the rough stones and tried to hide, but the light was  _in_ her and the light  _was_ her and it was burning everything away until she was sure she'd already died and was standing before God in all His awful glory.

Then just as suddenly as it arrived, it was gone. She tentatively drew in a breath, and found to her surprise that she could. Did dead people need to breathe? Didn't matter—she did anyway, sucking in lungful after lungful. Every breath hurt, like she was guzzling battery acid—every _thing_  hurt, come to think of it, every atom, and should things  _hurt_ when you're dead? Maybe she was in hell. That could explain it. Certainly done enough to deserve it. She opened her one good eye and prepared to meet her fate.

But it was only the tunnels, dripping and stinking. But now Reyes was there, looking down at Abbie with distinct disapproval. A ring of light glowed fiercely above her head and something trembled in the air behind her. Between one blink and the next they were gone. "You never learn, do you?" the captain asked.

"Now I know I'm in hell," Abbie whispered.

Reyes knelt beside her so Abbie could get a front-row seat to her eye roll. "You're not dead yet, little Witness. Be patient." She leaned forward and Abbie tried to scramble away, but nope, her limbs had been replaced with sacks of wet cement. Reyes' lips brushed her forehead.

This time, she managed to scream—once-before she was swallowed by the searing light.


	45. The Very Keys of Destruction

She was terrifying in her stillness. She neither burned with fever nor trembled with cold; she did not thrash her limbs or turn her head to find a cooler stretch of pillow. Not even her eyelids twitched in dreaming. His only solace came when he wrapped his fingers 'round her wrist and counted every blessed beat of her heart. Its rhythm was strong and true, yet still she did not wake. In a moment of humiliating despair, he even pressed his lips against hers, as though she were  _la belle au bois dormant_ and true love's kiss could awaken her. He was unsurprised when she slumbered on.

So he clung as best he could to the meager faith Captain Reyes had offered. "Come collect her," the captain's phone calls had ordered in clipped tones. "In the tunnels—two rights, a left, and in the niche a hundred feet down the hall. I'll come to you in three days." Then silence, the same response his attempts at contacting her had yielded since.

He had carried her far too light body here, to a place of refuge that threatened to drive him mad. Though it seemed a pleasant enough chamber, Ichabod knew that earth pressed in around them on all sides, that at any moment the ceiling could buckle and bury them both under acres of gasping earth. Every odd noise became an augury of doom.

His enforced lack of activity made the matter even worse. Miss Jenny had averred, and he had reluctantly agreed, that it was unwise for him to be about town with Miss Mills incapacitated; not only did it leave her defenseless, it left  _him_ defenseless without their Witness abilities. Pragmatic as the approach may be, he felt useless and feckless. He quickly exhausted the brief list of ways he could make himself useful-giving Miss Mills a crude bath, dribbling broth and water between her lips and stroking her throat until she swallowed, cleaning the worst of the cobwebs from the corners of this horrible subterranean lair—he was left with only his tortured thoughts and worst fears for companions.

He read to her, sometimes. Partly in the vain hope that his voice might prove a lifeline to draw her back to the shores of life, but also to shatter the unbearable silence. Washington's Bible was the only book in his possession. The familiar words were forever etched upon his eidetic mind, yet he found comfort in tracing his fingers over the letters, in the loamy scent of the glue and the feel of the brittle paper beneath his fingers. He drew strength from the fact that General Washington, too, had taken refuge in this same book on his darkest of days.

He sang to her the Song of Solomon, compared her to a garden and Pharaoh's horse and a tower of strength. In anger he spat out Lamentations, castigating the God who "hath led me, and brought me into darkness, but not into light." Later Ichabod found himself regretting his harsh words, seeking wisdom in the Psalms and begging that self-same God to "return, O Lord, deliver her soul: oh save her for Thy mercies' sake. For in death there is no remembrance of Thee: in the grave who shall give Thee thanks?"

Neither God nor lieutenant seemed to hear.

When his voice faltered and silence reigned, their last ( _latest_ , he corrected himself, not  _final_ ) conversation rang loud as thunder in his ears. The clawing terror in her voice. The desperate sincerity as she had struggled to reassure him of her affection. The way he had refused her that succor, selfishly ordering her to save the words—not for her sake, but for his. That he had not spoken those same words to her in her time of greatest need.

The hours crawled cruelly by, and his hope flagged with every moment she did not awaken. Time was meaningless here in the eternal glare of the bunker; there was only waking and sleeping, each offering its own unique torment. Now he dozed in his chair at her bedside, but he did not dream so much as he was besieged by spectral memories: the lieutenant's earnest face as she waxed rhapsodic on  _baseball,_ the brilliant bloom of blood on Katrina's snowy throat, the sound of a coffin snapping closed-

"Did you get him?"

Sleep fled. Her voice was raspy and wane yet the most welcomed sound he had ever heard. He could have wept with relief at those four expectant words, but she would not thank him for that. So he smiled instead with all his heart. "And leave no sport for you?"

"Aw, that was sweet of you. Let's go." After less than a minute of consciousness, the lieutenant was already attempting to rise from her cot. But he simply could not permit her to rush into battle so soon. He pressed an arresting hand against her chest.

"No, no, no," he chided. "You have been insensate these last days. Gather your strength."

She flung herself back down with a groan. "It's been  _days?_ Fucking Reyes."

"Curse her if you will, but it seems she saved your life. I cannot be cross with her for that." He rose to fetch her a bottle of water from the prodigious rack of supplies.

When he turned back to face her, she had pushed herself upright in bed, a faint sheen of sweat upon her brow the only indication of the effort it must have taken. He heaved a heavy sigh and handed her the water. "Slowly, please."

"No time for slow." But to her credit, she did not guzzle the water. She may be stubborn as a mule, but she was far wiser than that cursed creature. "I have a lot of questions, and I need you to answer them without worrying about my delicate condition or some shit. Deal?"

She was right to be curious about her odd surroundings, right to be baffled by the strange events which had occurred while she slumbered. But he could scarce believe that she was awake and alive and whole and wished only to drink in her presence until he was satisfied her recovery was real. Yet he obligingly sank to his knees beside her cot, and nodded. "I shall tell you the little I know. Captain Reyes alerted me to your location and promised to attend us in three days time. I found you insensible in the tunnels. My first thought was to bring you to the cabin, but I realized our enemy knows that location too well. I contacted Miss Jenny, who negotiated with her somewhat frightening compatriots—ironically the same who threatened our lives when we fetched the lantern—who grudgingly gave us use of this  _bunker,_ which they have exhaustively stocked for the end of days."

"Where is Jenny? Not safe for her out there with Irving."

"A fact of which I informed her no less than a dozen times. But it seems that intractability is a Mills family trait." That earned him a sly smile. He continued: "Once she overcame the shock of his betrayal, she has become most determined to thwart Captain Irving and protect Miss Macey and Mrs. Irving at all costs. She's visited you several times and was most concerned." Her brief appearances had been some of the only bastions of sanity he'd known these last few days. Her grief had crystallized into something hard and sharp and deadly. He would not dare cross that lady. "Last I knew, she was 'going to fuck with the five-oh before they fuck with us,' so I haven't the faintest idea what she's about."

"Something she has a lot of experience in," she said with a fond roll of her eyes. "Does Irving know I'm alive? And what about Reyes? Did she say anything else? There had to have been-"

But he could no longer bear to keep on his brave face. "I shall answer every last query in time, I swear it. First, I pray, answer one of my own: Are you  _truly_ well?" His voice quavered. Damn his nerves. "You were as one dead, and after your phone call, I feared-"

"Oh, Crane." Her hardened warrior's mask slipped as she gazed down at him. She cupped his cheek with her right hand, which now bore an odd star-shaped scar. "I feared too. That was..." she closed her eyes and shivered. "Not cute. Not fun. I'm glad you didn't have to see me that way. But I was okay when you found me? There was no...oozing?"

He blinked up at her. "I beg your pardon?"

"That's a no, then. Whatever Reyes did worked. Hurt like hell—or maybe like heaven, I don't even fucking know anymore." None of this made the slightest sense to him, but he chose not to pry. For now. "But I'm okay. I promise. Kinda feel like I've got a massive hangover but without the fun of the bender."

"By God, but I have missed you," he said as he leaned forward to press his lips against her forehead. When he settled back on his haunches, an odd flicker rippled across her face.

"I want to talk about that phone call."

"There is no need. You must be famished." He made to rise. "Much of this foodstuff appears unworthy of that name, but-"

"I want to talk about that phone call," she repeated, twisting her rough blanket into mountains and valleys.

"As you like," he said cautiously. "I apologize for so uncouthly interrupting you. It was poor manners, although I confess I was somewhat out of sorts at the time-"

"But you were right. I should say it because it's true. Because I want to. Not because I'm afraid it's the last chance or to leave you with the warm and fuzzies before I bite it." She stared down at her lap so hard he feared she might set fire to her bedclothes.

"You needn't say it at all. I have not the smallest doubt of your constancy." Her love was a force of nature, as steady and certain as the turn of the seasons or the rush of the tide. Words were but a nicety in the face of such surety.

"That's not the point. It's not even—shit, this is gonna come out wrong—but it's not even really about you. Except it's all about you."

He understood, he thought. At least grasped it 'round the edges. She had once spoken those words to him, but they had been flung in anger, more a shield than a confession. He wondered if she had spoken them to her mother or sister, even when she was a child. He rather doubted that she had. For to tell someone you love them is to give them the greatest power over you. With that knowledge they can unmake you with a glance or turn your joy to ashes with a curt word. To offer your heart with trembling but hopeful hands is to offer the very keys to your destruction.

"Would it help if I went first?" he asked after the silence grew a trifle stifling. After all, he had not shared those three lovely words with her. He had long feared that they would send her fleeing like a startled doe.

"I love you." The words exploded out of her like a cannonball, her voice a touch too loud in the small space. Her eyes blazed into his and she gave a firm nod, as if further confirming her statement. "I love you." Softer this time, but no less ardent. No less true.

Ichabod had not waited with bated breath to hear those words, yet he would never be immune to their majesty. He enveloped her in a great hug and laughed against her ear. "You did it, darling. Did it hurt terribly?" he teased.

She nipped at his earlobe hard enough to make him yelp. "Shut up."

He pulled back so he could see her face, see the pride and unbridled affection shining there beneath her sickroom pallor. "Of all the acts of heroism you have performed—and there are a great many—that may be the bravest thing I have yet seen you do." She ducked her head in a sudden bout of diffidence, but he tapped her chin until she met his gaze again. "And I love you. So very much so that the word seems inadequate and small compared to the great swell of _everything_  I feel."

"Touching. So glad we have time to sit around talking about our feelings when the fourth Horseman is riding roughshod over Sleepy Hollow," a voice said. Ichabod was on his feet in an instant, sweeping in front of the prone lieutenant and reaching for the pistol on his hip. Captain Reyes stood amongst the shelves of provisions, examining the cans and sacks with interest.

"How did you gain entry?" Ichabod demanded. "The door is barred from within."

"Irving is getting ready to make his move," she said as if he had not spoken. "The earliest stirrings of plague are beginning to spread. For now, it is the very old and the very young. But it will grow. Then will come the quarantines. And martial law." She canted her head to the side at a drum-sized vat of canned food. "Why would anyone want to eat creamed corn during the apocalypse?"

"How do you know all this?" Miss Mills asked. She swung her feet toward the floor, but Reyes cast her a withering glance.

"You stay put. I went to a lot of trouble to put you back together and you're not going to ruin it so quickly."

"And I appreciate you helping me out," the lieutenant said in that brittle way that meant she was restraining her temper. "But you bust in here and tell me old people and babies are dying, I'm not taking a damn nap." She stood defiantly but began to sway almost at once. Ichabod drew abreast and her weight settled against his shoulder.

"Yes, by all means, rush in and confront Irving again. It worked so well last time," Captain Reyes said.

"I didn't  _confront_ him, I-"

"If I may interrupt this very productive bickering, who are you?" Ichabod asked, squinting at the woman. "At our last meeting you kindly informed me that information was dispersed on a need-to-know basis. If we are to trust your intelligence, we very much need to know."

"I am a soldier. Just here following orders. Same ones you're following."

"And how did you know Miss Mills' mother?" Ichabod queried.

"My mother?" Miss Mills was no longer able to maintain her brave stance and sank onto the foot of the cot.

For the first time, the captain's icy demeanor showed signs of thawing. "Lori was the first person I met when I got to town back in those days. She was good to me. Better than I deserved. It had been a while since I'd been down, and I'd forgotten a lot of things. About people, mostly. Their awful physical limitations and emotional  _needs_ , for one," she said with a sneer. "Why they're so stupid and terrible and wonderful all at the same time, for another."

"Coming down. Forgetting how people behave. Fuck," Miss Mills muttered  _sotto  voce. _"You're not saying that what I saw in those tunnels—I didn't see that. You can't be  _that_."

"God is my light," Captain Reyes said with a careless shrug.

Was this meant to be some sort of code word? Were they meant to respond with a pass phrase of some kind, to assure them that they were both fighting on the same side? God is my light. How would one respond? Perhaps a cipher in another language?  _Dominus lux mea est,_ perhaps, or to parse it in Hebrew-

He stared at the woman before him. Should he fall to his knees? Avert his gaze? What was the protocol in these situations? "Uriel," he said. "God is my light. You're an-"

"Yes," she said with a yawn. "Sure am. And I am here to make sure you two don't fuck this up. Now-"

"Uriel. That's the one who guarded Eden after God kicked Adam and Eve to the curb, right?" Miss Mills asked him.

Why was she asking  _him_ when there was a true messenger of God who could speak for herself? Admittedly, she (he? Did angels have genders?) was a terribly rude messenger of God who seemed to hate them on sight, but a messenger of God nonetheless. He struggled to recall everything he knew about the heavenly choirs. "Indeed. And verified the lamb's blood on the lintels before unleashing the tenth plague."

"So she's got like a big fiery sword, doesn't she?"

"And mastery over that element, yes."

"I'm standing right here," Reyes said.

"Oh good. So I can ask you direct: if God has you, why the fuck does He need us?" Miss Mills snarled.

Ichabod would have counseled perhaps a bit more respect for the archangel in their midst. But to his surprise, Reyes did not unleash her fiery sword upon them. "Because this is your world, not mine. If it is to be saved—and I'll be very frank with you, I'm not sure that it is—it has to come from children of men. Whether you live or you die is immaterial. My Lord will be displeased, but He will endure. That is all that matters to me."

_Displeased?_ If the entire world fell to hell, God would merely be  _displeased?_ "Then why do you aid us? If our lives are of so little consequence?" Ichabod said.

"Like I said, I'm a soldier following orders." She glanced at Miss Mills and her voice took on a more sympathetic tinge. "And if I'm being honest, for Lori. A little bit for her. You don't look anything like her, you know."

Miss Mills smeared at her face with weary hands. "Thanks. Okay. So you're an angel. And Irving has taken the police department and is planning on taking the town. Any idea on a timetable?"

"It depends on how fast the plague spreads. It's airborne, so there's maybe a week at the outside before it reaches crisis levels."

"If we vanquish Irving, will it halt the spread of the sickness? Is it bound to him?" Ichabod said.

"It won't disappear, but it will lose its demonic charge. It will be manageable."

"So how do we take him out?" Miss Mills asked.

"I'm not here to solve this for you. Couldn't even if I wanted to: I don't know. You were granted a taste of divine power for a reason. Start there and figure it out. You've been given everything you need."

"Maybe we can spread some pestilence on him," Miss Mills said as she cast him a bleak glance. "Fight fire with fire."

"Sure, why not," Reyes said. "I'm going back to the station. He thinks I'm on his side, so I can stay up on recon. Which—forgot to tell you." Ichabod swore she flashed a snaky smile. "There are warrants out for your arrest. Both of you."

"Splendid." Because they needed one more complication in this impossible task.

"Do I even want to know the charges?" Miss Mills said.

The "captain" ignored her. "Try not to do anything stupid tonight; you are not the most important people in my world, and I don't have time to come to the rescue again. Rest. Plan. Get your act together. Irving knows that shitbird Lucifer can take back his deal anytime and send his girl back to the wheelchair _._ And that's the  _best_ case scenario there. He'll be desperate to prove he can hold up his end of the bargain."

Five taps—one short, one long, two short, and one long—thudded from the reinforced door. Miss Jenny's signal. Ichabod hurried to pull the bar and grant her entrance.

"She's awake," he said as soon as it was open. "And quite all right. Captain Reyes was just-" he broke off as he took in Miss Jenny's haggard appearance, one shirt sleeve soaked through with blood at the shoulder, the yellow-purple beginnings of a bruise mottling her cheek. But that was not half so startling as who stood beside her. "Miss  _Macey?_ " he asked incredulously.

"So much for not doing anything stupid," Reyes said. And then between one breath and the next she vanished, leaving only the lingering scent of wood smoke behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ichabod reads from the book of Lamentations, chapter 3, verse 2, and Psalms 6:5 with some pronoun swaps.


	46. A Good Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Three quick pieces of business:
> 
> 1\. My dear JWAB and I have spent the long hiatus writing a series of letters between Abbie and Ichabod. You can find that in my profile under "Yours, Ichabod: Letters of Love and Lust Between the Captain and the Lieutenant."
> 
> 2\. In related news, you can now find me on Tumblr under CreepingMuse (creative, I know).
> 
> 3\. OUR SHOW IS BACK TOMORROW. Thank fuck. Just as a reminder, moving forward we'll be sticking to our own internal canon and not affected by whatever wonderful craziness they may throw at us tomorrow.
> 
> With that, back to our heroes.  
> ***

"Ah. Miss Jenny, if I am to tend your shoulder, I shall need to remove..." Crane squinted at the bright bullseye of blood on her shoulder, then cast Abbie a desperate glance. "Lieutenant, are you certain you wouldn't rather play surgeon for your sister?"

Abbie just held out her hand. It fluttered and trembled embarrassingly until she let it fall back into her lap. Even with the super angel healing factor, Abbie was still pretty wrung out. Another attempt at standing had not ended well. Macey—the girl who had been in a  _wheelchair_ yesterday-had helped her back to the cot. "Not a good idea right now."

Crane's anxious, prissy face smoothed into lines of concern. He started to say something, but she shook her head and jerked her chin toward Jenny. He whirled back toward his patient. "Right, then. Best to cut off the garment, then, so as not to cause further-"

"Oh for fuck's sake." Jenny grabbed the pair of scissors from the first aid kit and slit her shirt up the front. She shrugged out of the scraps, wincing as she pulled the sodden fabric away from the gash in her shoulder. Her red bra matched Crane's furiously blushing cheeks. "Lighten up. They're just boobs. 'Bout the same as Abbie's. Maybe a little bigger," she said with a taut grin.

Abbie turned her back on them. Even flustered, Crane would do a good job patching her up. And now that she knew her sister wasn't going to bleed out in a fucking doomsday prepper bunker, she could focus on the real problem. Macey.

Her first instinct had been to hurl accusations at Jenny. She'd worked hard to train herself to expect the worst, to not be surprised at the late-night phone calls from the hospitals, or at the pitying looks from her colleagues when they told her that Jenny had been picked up again. It had been easier that way. After all, if Jenny was a fuckup who couldn't get her act together and stay out of jail or asylums, it hurt a little less to lose her. But now that Jenny had proved her so wrong and proven herself so worthy, Abbie had to fight against the bad habits she'd built up. She had to remember the promises she'd made in Purgatory. She had to be better.

So she focused her attention on Macey. The girl sat on the cot beside her, back pressed against the wall, knees curled to her chest. She looked painfully ordinary, her skinny jeans revealing legs that were strong and steady, not wasted and weak with atrophy. But the look in her eyes, that wasn't ordinary. It was strained and haunted, precariously balanced between guilt and terror. Abbie had seen that look in the mirror more times than she wanted to admit.

"You hungry? Thirsty? We've got a lifetime supply of Tang," Abbie offered. But Macey just shook her head. "Don't blame you. Even if I were an astronaut I wouldn't drink that shit."

And then she waited. Corbin always said that two minutes of silence was better than twenty minutes of questions. That silence gave the guilty time to find their conscience and the innocent time to find their courage.

Not that it was exactly quiet here. Crane was keeping up a steady stream of blather- "It feels positively barbaric to put you to the needle without a dram or two of rum. But at least it isn't an amputation, hey? Just a bit of a stitch-up is all, 'twill barely even leave a scar-" though whether the running commentary was for his benefit or his patient's, she couldn't say. Jenny gave a soft grunt each time the needle pierced her skin.

"It's my fault she's hurt." Macey's voice was quiet but unequivocal. "I asked her to come help me."

So it wasn't Jenny being a hothead. It had been Jenny being a hero. Abbie was doubly glad she'd been able to keep her mouth shut. "I'll let Jenny be the one to tell you that it's not your fault, but I promise that she'll say she's to blame for not being quick enough."

"But she wouldn't have  _had_ to be quick if I hadn't called."

"Maybe not," Abbie permitted. "So it must have been pretty important for you to call, huh?"

"She was the only one who would tell me the truth. About the night the Reverend died."

Abbie sat very still. "And what did she tell you?"

"I thought I was going crazy. I was remembering pieces, little broken bits. Sometimes when I was dreaming, sometimes just when I was sitting in class. A voice that wasn't mine but was coming from me. And this cracking noise, over and over again this  _crack-thud_..." She pulled her legs closer to her chest. "And Dad wouldn't tell me anything. When I went to visit him in jail, he just changed the subject. Wouldn't talk about it. Said the lawyers were working on it. Treated me like some kind of  _kid._ "

"But Jenny didn't."

She shook her head hard. "Jenny told me the truth. She told me there are demons, so don't try to tell me there aren't."

"I won't." The days of pretending that denial equaled safety were long over. "What made you call her today?"

"I'm not stupid. I know that Dad getting out of jail isn't normal. The way he's acting isn't, either. There are all these people coming and going all the time, and they all have guns. Even the couple days I was back in the city with Mom, there were people following us. I  _saw_ them. And they all smelled like the cabin smelled that night. Like when you crack open an old egg. Jenny said it's brimstone."

"I'm glad you had Jenny through all of this. I really am." What would it have been like if they'd had someone who'd been there, who could have told them that it was all real? Someone who could have protected them, stood up to the cops and the shrinks and the foster homes and everybody? What if Corbin had found them earlier? Or what if Abbie had just  _been there_ like sisters were supposed to be? It all could've been different.

"I thought she could tell me what was wrong with Dad. But when she came to meet me in the park, the guy following me just went nuts. I wasn't even going to run away, I just wanted to talk. But then he stabbed her and we had to run. We  _had_ to," she repeated. "Do you know what's wrong with my dad?"

Abbie hesitated. "Yes," she said finally.

"What is it?"

God, she was young. Abbie wasn't sure exactly how old; older than she and Jenny had been, she thought. But still far, far too young for all this. "Once I tell you, you can't unknow it. Is that really what you want?"

Macey looked away. Slowly, she shook her head. "I know it has to do with me. With why I can walk again. They're calling me the miracle girl." She straightened her legs out in front of her, let them dangle off the edge of the cot. Without warning, she began beating at her own thighs with sharp fists. Abbie managed to grab both wrists—a stray blow was probably going to leave a shiner—and pin them to the girl's sides.

"Mace? You okay Mace?" Jenny called. She tried to stand and Crane tried to press her back down. Abbie was putting her money on Jenny in this fight.

"We're okay. You stay put," Abbie said.

"Hurry it up, Prince George," Jenny said as she settled back down.

"How dare you, Madam," Crane sniffed.

Abbie kept a firm grip on Macey's arms. "None of this is your fault. Nothing you did or didn't do could have changed this. Your dad made some choices. And just because he made them out of love doesn't mean they were the right ones."

"I'll go back into the chair. I'll do it right now. I just want my dad back." The girl wasn't crying—small fucking mercies—but her earnest despair was worse than a sobbing fit. Saddest thing was, the kid might get part of her wish. Abbie doubted that Irving's Faustian bargain would survive his death. So the kid might find herself without a father and without a working set of legs.

"I don't know what's going to happen," Abbie said, fighting her instinct to retreat into the safety of a lie. "To your dad, to any of us. I hope we can make things right. Crane and I, we're gonna try." Not that she was optimistic about it. There was no walking back from being a Horseman; hell, Abbie had been offered the same deal herself. But she couldn't tell a kid that she was going to march out and do her best to use God's power to light her dad on fire. "I can promise you that all three of us are going to do everything we can to keep you safe."

"Promise me you'll do everything you can to keep  _him_  safe." Macey turned the tables and grabbed onto Abbie's wrists, her grip tight and pleading.

"I-"

"Fucking  _finally._ " Jenny bounded out of her chair, a tidy line of stitches snaking their way from collarbone to shoulder. "Blood loss always makes me hungry. You hungry, Mace?"

But Macey's eyes were still locked on Abbie. "Promise me."

Abbie swallowed down a sigh. She'd been so ready to see Irving as just a Horseman. A mad dog to be put down. After all, once somebody tries to kill you with a plague of pus, it kinda cancels out the good things they might have done. But Irving was still, in his way, a good man. Or trying to be. Or something. "I'll promise I'll try. Best I can do."

Macey's brow furrowed as she scanned across Abbie's face. She could be a good cop one day, if she wanted to be. Had a nose for BS just like her old man. Finally, she nodded, released Abbie, and slipped off the cot. "Thanks."

Jenny and her little shadow slipped into the rows of provisions. Crane came to stand beside her, wiping his clean hands on a cloth. "And what will you try to do?"

"Save Irving. If there's anything left to save."

A heavy hand fell onto her shoulder. "A noble effort. One I wish with all my soul would work. And yet-"

"Yet it didn't work with Henry. I know. But I'm not going to do anything stupid. And besides," she said, lacing her fingers through his, "I had your back then. This time you've got mine. Right?"

His lips turned upward in a smile that didn't even come close to reaching his eyes. The Henry thing was always going to be hard for him. And it should be. But he bent and kissed the crown of her head. "Always."

* * *

Abbie was holding things up. She felt stronger with every minute, was even able to stand without wanting to hork her guts out for minutes at a time, which was progress. But she couldn't climb the long rung ladder that led to the surface yet, much less throw down with a Horseman. Though it caused her physical pain to think of all the people up there watching in horror as the pox consumed them, she agreed to wait and reevaluate in the morning. After a meal of beans and Spam (it was hard to say who was more horrified, Crane or Macey), they'd bedded down on four old army cots that squealed every time they twitched.

The only familiar noise here was Crane's weird snoring. It wasn't the snorty kind or the freight train kind; it was this nasal whistle, punctuated by brief periods of mumbling. Latin, she thought. Maybe Greek. Abbie found it equal parts irritating and comforting, especially in such a strange place.

But even with that auditory safety blanket, Abbie couldn't sleep. Maybe it was that she'd had enough sleep in the last three days to last a lifetime. Or maybe it's that it was actually too fucking dark to sleep here underground, that her eyes longed for something, anything to latch onto.

After what felt like hours of staring into the void, she turned on her side. "Jen? You awake?"

"Nope. Sound asleep over here," Jenny whispered.

Abbie smiled into the blackness. "Smartass. How's the shoulder?"

"I'll live. You should be resting up for Horseman Four: The Revengening."

"I know." Abbie wished she could see her sister's face. That she could get any kind of read on how Jenny felt about all this. "This must be hard. You and Irving are-"

"We aren't. And even if we had been, it wouldn't matter now."

"-friends," Abbie finished.

"Oh. Well. Yeah. I guess we were."

Were. It was all past tense now. But obviously Jenny had considered that what she had with Irving could grow into something more. That given time and luck and peace, maybe she could have found a little oasis of happiness in a desert of serious shit. Like Abbie had. But now she'd never have the chance.

Abbie rubbed at the back of her hand; every now and then the weird star-shaped pucker where Irving had touched her squirmed uncomfortably. "Did you know Mom used to hang out with an angel?"

Silence. Even Crane was quiet. Abbie thought Jenny had fallen asleep, but then came the soft reply: "Yeah. Corbin told me."

Ugly jealousy dripped down Abbie's spine. "Oh."

"That's all I know, though. That there was an angel. Not why or who or anything important."

" _Malo nodo malus quaerendus cuneus_ ," Crane mumbled.

"And he wanted to tell you," Jenny continued. "But he was trying to protect you. So was I. It was too late to keep me out of all this bump in the night bullshit, but we both thought you could get away. Be the normal one."

"I've never thanked you for that. For what you did for me."

"Please don't. That would be awkward as all hell."

Abbie laughed. "One of these days, when this is all over, we're gonna have a long talk. Get through all of this, what Corbin told you, what he told me, what we know about Mom, where the two of us stand."

More quiet. More creaking. "That sounds great and all, but let's be real: no we're not. We're not the talk-it-out kind. There will always be something more important and less uncomfortable to do. And I'm cool with that. I know where we stand."

A surprising sense of relief surged through her. "Oh thank God. Crane's been rubbing off on me—always wanting to talk about  _feelings_."

"Fuck that noise. We're good. Now shut up and go to sleep."

Abbie tried. She closed her eyes against the darkness and breathed slow and deep, waiting for sleep to tug her under. But there was one nagging thing left undone, one simple thing that needed to be said before she could. "I'm really proud of you, Jenny."

A pillow smacked her in the head. "Told you to shut up." But her voice seemed to glow in the darkness, casting just enough light to help ease Abbie into a smiling sleep.

* * *

They had to make it look real. That was the key. If they let the cops take them too easily, Irving would know something was up. The setting: the hospital. The place would be crawling with cops, but they would be a little slower to reach for their sidearms in such a crowded, sensitive place.

Sure enough, it worked. They donned purposefully shitty disguises—Crane's hair tucked up under a ball cap, Abbie with a scarf wrapped around her mouth-and tried to sneak in through the hospital's service entrance. A couple of bored looking uniforms Abbie had never seen before started toward them, and the pair bolted out into the parking lot. Abbie was still moving slower than usual, so she'd given up running and turned to face them, feinting low with a pocket knife. For her trouble, she got her head cracked against the concrete and a boot in her back as she was cuffed. Crane gave up the fight quickly after that, though he took up ranting about Constitutional rights and the role of the police state. Their captors were unmoved.

Abbie had forgotten the way handcuffs make your fingers turn tingly and numb.

Stuffed in the back of a cruiser, they glided through a town that wasn't Sleepy Hollow any more. Sickly blue and red lights painted the centuries-old town in Technicolor shadows. More cops—where the fuck had all the cops  _come from_?-patrolled the streets in full body armor and gas masks. They would disappear into houses, then boil out moments later. About half the time, they produced cans of spray paint and marked the doors with a bloody letter "Q."

"Quarantine," Crane breathed.

The dicey part was the interrogation room situation. If they were separated, it was game over. But Abbie had been willing to gamble that they'd be overflowing with perps picked up for looting or profiteering. Too little space to play the prisoner's dilemma game.

Sure enough, they were frog marched to Interrogation Room 4, the shittiest and smallest of them all. The one-way mirror was shattered into a spidery kaleidoscope. There were no chairs for them to sit in. The fluorescent lights gave a persistent, low-grade hum as if a swarm of hornets had taken up residence in the fixture.

This was all going way too well.

The uniforms left the handcuffs on, but didn't chain them to the table. Abbie couldn't parse what that meant. Were they being sloppy? Acting on Irving's orders? She just didn't know. Ichabod gave her a hopeful smile, all eyebrows and blue eyes, but her own response was more a grimace. They settled in to wait in silence.

Abbie had expected Irving to bang through the door in a righteous fury. But instead, about twenty minutes later, the intercom crackled to life. "Where are they?"

_They_. Not she. Interesting. Abbie could use that. "Macey and Jenny are both safe. Macey's a little scared, a little confused about what's happening, but Jenny's helping her through."

"Where are they?" the voice repeated.

"Your daughter is commendably brave, Captain," Crane said. "Above all she misses her father. Her  _real_  father, who taught her that courage. Let us help you be worthy of her love once more."

The door opened. Irving stepped in. He was dressed in his usual rumpled suit, his profile sharp in the harsh glare. He walked the length of the room slowly, his eyes fixed on the far wall. Only when he had nowhere left to go did he turn to face them.

The right side of his face was a nightmare. Bits of muscle peeped through rotted flesh in ropy strands. His dark eye had turned to milk, cloudy and useless. A sweet funeral home smell filled the air. "I want them back." Teeth flashed through his cheek as he spoke.

Abbie's powdered oatmeal breakfast threatened to make a dramatic reappearance. "Jesus, Frank. What's happening to you?"

"I'm paying my price." His half-putrid lips turned his words slurry and indistinct.

Even Crane was looking a little green around the gills, rubbing his nose against his shoulder as though to drive out the stench of decay. "It is a price your daughter does not wish you to pay."

"She's a child. She doesn't get to make those decisions." He turned away, hiding his awful death's mask.

"What about this town, then? Do they get a say? You're killing the people you're sworn to protect," Abbie pleaded.

"If it wasn't me it would be somebody else doing it. I can make it quicker. I can make it more painless. I can protect the survivors." There was the smallest quaver in his voice, a faint rise in pitch at the end of his sentences. He wasn't sold.

"Or you can help us. You can turn against Moloch and we can work to undo this. You're free now. And Macey's still your daughter and she still loves you whether she's in a chair or-"

Crane hacked like a cat coughing up a hairball. But it didn't stop—more racking wheezes clawed their way out of his throat until he fell to his knees with a jangling of chains. Pink-tainted spit flecked his beard.

"He's still your Crane whether he's puking his lungs on the floor or not," Irving mocked. But the awful convulsions stopped.

Crane's bulging, wild eyes found hers, and she nodded. They'd tried. But whether this was who Irving always had been, deep down, or whether he'd been corrupted by Pestilence, the time for negotiations was past.

They reached for the power together and it jumped joyfully at their command. There was that pounding, pulsing, transcendent feel of the divine, all mixed up with the fizzy, tingly sense of Crane, though the Crane bit was disturbingly weak. Abbie poured more of herself into the swirl of power to make up for him, and white fire ignited around Irving, wrapping him in tendrils that sought to scour out the infection and leave only purified bones behind. But the flames hissed and recoiled as soon as they touched Irving's skin, their clear light souring into green flames that spit oily smoke into the air. With a gasp, Abbie lost hold of the power and fell to the floor, gagging.

Irving straightened his tie. "Once I'm away, my officers will see you out. You will bring Macey to me. And Jenny. If I don't have them both by sundown, things will get unpleasant in Tarrytown. Then Elmsford. Then Long Island. Then it's only a hop skip and a jump to Manhattan, isn't it?"

Crane stretched out a hand, long fingers grasping at the air, and as he did, the noxious yellow-tinged "gift" of plague, the disgusting power the Witnesses shared with the Horseman but which she refused to touch, stirred at the edge of her mind. It pushed toward Irving, closer, closer, but just as the sickness nearly reached him, Crane lost his grip. It evaporated into the air like a sneeze and Crane slumped forward, moaning.

Last chance, last chance, she was running out of last chances. "Irving," she croaked. "You're a good man. You can still  _be_ that good man. For her."

"I'm not a good man. But for the first time in a long time, I'm a good father." The door clicked shut and the seconds until sundown ticked away.


	47. The Stand

They ran, hunted, through the pissing rain. Ichabod breathed daggers into his lungs with every step but he dared not slow. They needed distance, privacy, and time, three luxuries they sorely lacked.

The pair had only just managed to lose their "tail," as the lieutenant called them—two officers, one with great drooping mustachios and the other with a belly as soft and round as proofed dough—by dashing into the trees that lined Route 9. Irving's men had thrashed along behind them for a time, but now the only sound was their own feet whisking through the just-fallen autumn leaves and his own aching, whistling breaths.

"You're good. You've got this," Miss Mills urged. He wished he shared her confidence, or her stamina; she scarcely sounded out of wind, despite her recent convalescence. Whatever foul, creeping magic Irving had cast upon him was proving pernicious. "Just a little farther."

He nodded, not daring to risk precious breath on a reply. Black started to creep in 'round the edges of his vision, but then a tiny wooden structure, half collapsed and covered in gray-green moss, loomed before them. The lieutenant led him inside. He slumped to the floor, grateful to be out of the rain and at a stop, nevermind that he sat upon mud and the whole structure reeked overwhelmingly of cat urine.

"Old sugar shack," Miss Mills explained. "Jenny and I used to stop and play here sometimes on our way home. Before." She crouched beside him. "You okay?"

He nodded, then realized the lie of the gesture. Nothing in this situation could be described as  _okay._ As far as he was concerned, that damnable angel had led them into an ambush. They had listened to her, they had believed her. She had said to trust in the divine gifts God had given them. And oh, foolish mortals that they were, they had. And what had it brought them? Failure, humiliation, pain, and a headlong flight into the unknown.

"Uriel!" Ichabod bellowed. Or attempted to, rather. The sound that issued from his mouth was more like the croak of a consumptive bullfrog. Worse yet, it set off a round of retching coughs that made his ribs feel brittle and distinctly fragile. "Ow."

"That sounded like it hurt," Miss Mills said. He offered a small, stoic nod. "Then stop hollering unless you want to bring fucking Crockett and Tubbs back down on us." She tempered her harsh, nonsensical words by pressing her hand against his chest. He knew it was specious, but he swore the gentle contact helped him breathe the slightest bit more easily. "What do you want her for anyway?"

Ichabod drew in a few more stinging breaths before he was fit to answer. "I would have words with her. Her lack of information nearly doomed us. You could have been killed-"

" _I_ could have been killed? You're the one with the death rattle right now."

"-and  _she_ could have helped us. Stood beside us. Guided us. Yet she gave us false hope and deceptive encouragement. All our divine power was for naught in the face of the Captain's corruption, and we are left with a mere fistful of hours before he is set to unleash hell upon our most populous city."

For the first time since all this holy nonsense began, Crane felt betrayed. At every turn, he had done his best to be a dutiful soldier. To bow to the will of destiny and obey the will of God. He had trained and sacrificed, tapped into parts of himself that made his stomach churn like a roiling sea. He had watched his wife's life bleed away to dust and played a hand in his son's own destruction, all in the faith that God had a greater plan for them. Yet the Creator was proving Himself to be a poor general indeed. True, no leader—not even Washington himself—was unerring in his command. But a great general stood by his troops, shared their struggle, suffered the same crushing blows as the lowest beetle-headed infantryman. Yet now, mankind bore the brunt of His mistakes, while the Lord dwelt in relative safety on some far-off sphere.

"I know. I know, Crane." Miss Mills rose up on her knees so they were at eye-level and rested her forehead against his. Her skin was pleasantly cool against his brow, her breath tickling against his cheek. "Jesus, if anybody knows this is all bullshit, it's me. But she's not coming. She made that clear. It's just us. I need your giant, weirdo brain and your stupid, stupid courage. I need you, here with me. Can you do that?"

God, for all His folly and all his neglectful cruelty, had granted them one kindness: He knew no single soul could bear the sorrow and strife of Witnesship. So He had called two to service, so that when one's spirit flagged, the other could raise him up and convince him to continue running this losing race.

Perhaps he couldn't be strong enough for the whole world. But he could be strong enough for her.

He buried his face against the side of her neck, just for a moment, just to indulge in the luxury of her touch, her scent, her bravery. Then he pulled back and nodded, attempting to reach deep inside him for that "stupid" courage she insisted was there. "Yes. Yes, of course. And if there is one small, cold consolation, at least we know Miss Macey and Miss Jenny are safe. That he shan't find them."

"Yeah, we're gonna have to get them out of there at some point. Gonna need 'em," Miss Mills said coolly.

He blinked at her, aghast. "You would use your  _sister_ as bait? To say nothing of a child-"

"Glad to see one of you's got your head in the game." Captain Reyes stood in the shack's doorway, her silhouette haloed against the puddling drabness outside.

"What are you doing here?" Miss Mills asked, shifting her weight in front of him. As if her tiny frame could be any sort of a shield against God's own assassin.

"Didn't come because of his little tantrum." She arched a brow at Ichabod. "Want to make that damn clear. Conduct unbecoming an officer, Captain."

"Then it's a fine thing you are not my commander,  _Captain,_ " he sneered back. Any respect her celestial status should have afforded her was a thing of the past. The woman was frightfully rude, angel or no.

"Are you here to help? Because I am not here for a lecture when we have less than six hours until fucking demon pox gets unleashed on Manhattan," the lieutenant said.

"Yes. If you want my help. If you truly believe I have lied to you or misled you, you can handle this one on your own. Easier for me that way." She shrugged.

Ichabod wanted nothing more than to dress her down. To express every ounce of rage and futility and hopelessness he felt. She was an easy target, mostly because she was there. It would have felt positively blissful. But this wasn't about him and his momentary pleasure. So he drew a deep breath (too deep, he realized with a wince) and bowed his head. Just a fraction. Just enough to acknowledge the kindness of her offer. "How can you help?"

"I can get Macey and Jenny out of the bunker. Bring them to a safe rendezvous. Irving isn't going to let you anywhere near him without them, and if you try to get them out yourself, I guarantee his men will find a way to nab them first. You'll never see him again."

"Miss Macey should have no role in this," Ichabod said firmly. "We cannot risk her well-being."

"Too late," Miss Mills said quietly. "She's in this. And she chose to come to Jenny. Chose to make a stand against her dad. Who are we to take that from her?"

"Yes, how inconsiderate of me to try to protect the child from watching her own  _father_  die _._ " He had watched his own son perish as a result of his actions. Or inactions, as it were. The memory would haunt him until the day he was laid in his own final grave. What would that do to a youth, still untested and untried? "Of course, that assumes it is even within our power to end Captain Irving's miserable, putrescent existence. Your much-vaunted divine powers failed us, madam."

"Try harder." Her eyes cut coldly to the lieutenant. "Both of you."

Miss Mills bristled, rising to her feet. "We did. We threw everything we had at him, and-"

"I have neither the time nor the patience for excuses. Do you want my help or not?"

Miss Mills looked down at him. An entire conversation passed wordlessly between them.

Raised eyebrows.  _We need her._

A small shake of his head.  _We need to protect them._

Her shoulders slumped.  _Won't be anybody left to protect if this thing gets loose._

His fingers spreading wide.  _How can we stop it?_

A wry smile and a helpless shrug.  _Gotta start somewhere._

Reluctantly, a nod.

"Yes," Miss Mills said. "Please."

"Good. Sunset. They'll be wherever you need them to be."

"Hey. Just—ask them first?" Miss Mills asked uncertainly. "I know what Jenny will say, but ask if they're willing to come. Just in case their choices changed. They should get to decide if they'll stand with us." His heart swelled until it ached every bit as much as his abused ribs. Even now, she sought to offer her sister and the child the choice that was never given to her. He struggled to his feet and slipped an arm about her waist.

"Very well." The captain turned to leave.

"And you? Will you stand with us?" Ichabod asked. He knew he should remain silent, yet his tongue had other plans entirely.

"I won't be there, no. But I'll stand with you." Yet Uriel was not speaking to him. Not in the slightest. Her eyes were fixed upon the lieutenant. "Mills. I was wrong. You do look like Lori. A little. Around the eyes, maybe." And for the first time since Crane had known the woman, she smiled. Not nastily, not smirkily, just...a smile. Almost proud, in a way. Then she was gone.

"What was all that about?" Ichabod asked.

"Pretty sure she just dislikes me now, 'stead of downright hating my guts."

"Progress," he said, pressing a kiss to the side of her neck. He lowered himself onto a great overturned copper kettle eaten through with holes and crusted with ancient lumps of maple sugar. "Now if only we can determine how to 'try harder.'" Ichabod had nearly exhausted his store of  _try,_ let alone any remaining reserve of  _harder._ "Truly, Lieutenant, I hadn't anything left to give. At the end, when I was summoning pestilence, had I reached any farther, I'm certain my very heart would have exploded from the strain. And the effect was utterly useless."

"But I wasn't trying." She crossed her arms over her chest and stared out at the rain. "I wasn't doing anything. I felt you doing it, felt you straining and I...didn't."

"I never expected you to. I know your feelings on the matter. And it was a rather daft idea to begin with, fighting pestilence with pestilence. But there was no water that might be turned to blood, and, well, something had to be tried."

"And fire, even when we were working together, got us nowhere." She turned her gaze upon an ancient stack of kindling piled neatly in the fire pit, waiting for the sugarers who would never return. He felt her power bubble through him and cheerful white flames sprang to life. "There's nothing else, huh? Fire, blood, plague. That's all we get?"

He stretched his hands toward the warmth. "I suppose we could shut up the heavens and stop the rain. Which might have made our flight from the sheriff's department more pleasant, but which seems much too long-term to be of use against Captain Irving."

"Maybe the simplest answer is the best one. Double tap to the temple." His brows knit together in a question, and she indicated the butt of her pistol. He shook his head.

"The man was rotting away before our eyes. If he can survive those kinds of injuries, there is little reason to believe something so ordinary as a bullet could solve our problems."

"Then it must be plague. That has to be the key. Somehow.  _Fuck._ " She jabbed her knuckles against the door frame, causing the entire shack to shudder alarmingly about them.

He wished he had words of comfort to offer her. That he could truthfully tell her that she needn't cross that final threshold, that the one part of herself she had tried to save from their all-consuming mission could remain her own. But she had convinced him that perhaps it was necessary to involve a child in their fight, as loathsome as that idea was. Perhaps this last sacrifice of herself was also necessary. "I'm sorry, Abbie. Truly I am. If there were another-"

She held up a silencing hand. Once more, she leveled her gaze at the flames. They winked out at once. Not even a wisp of smoke remained. "We can do that. We  _practiced_ doing that. Doing the opposite of what the Bible said we could do—extinguishing fire instead of breathing it."

He shook his head. She was driving at something important, something he should understand, but he couldn't quite grasp it. It drove him mad when she was cleverer than he. It was also one of the reasons he loved her most. "What are you getting at?"

"Just—here." She scrambled across the room and seized his hands. "On my mark, reach for the power. Plague. And go with me. Okay?"

He trusted her, of course. But he did not trust the unknown. He tightened his grip upon her uneasily. "Yes, of course, but it is only you and me. What will you-"

" _Now_ ," she ordered. And he instinctively obeyed, grasping at the bilious and vile power of pestilence inside him at the same moment he grasped for her. He was sucked into the whirlwind of  _them,_ that place where they were more themselves and more each other than he ever thought possible. The sickly sense of plague combined and grew to a terrible roar, and just when he was certain he could contain not a drop more of the foul feeling, she began forcing even more of that power into him. It filled his lungs with effluvia until they felt fit to burst; it swam inside the cage of his ribs in furious eddies. It clawed its way up his throat and just when he was certain it would burble out of his lips and he would simply drown, right here on the forest floor, it all stopped.

If not for her arms, he would have sprawled face-first in the muck. But she held him close even when he feebly tried to push away. "Shh. It's okay. I got you, I got you."

"What the bloody hell did you  _do_ to me?"

"Just do me one quick favor, then you can yell at me. Take a big, deep breath."

He wanted to protest that he had just performed a favor for her and she had repaid him by stuffing him full of poison. In fact, he drew in breath to tell her just that. But to his surprise the action was not marked by pain or coughing. His chest expanded precisely as it was meant to and his lungs feasted on the surfeit of clean, pure air. "You healed me."

"We healed you," she said, unable to hide her pride. "Turned plague inside out."

"Brilliant." If they could transform plague into healing, then that might be a potent weapon against Captain Irving himself. If both were united in purpose and power, they might indeed even be able to drive out his sickness and restore him to health. This might yet have a happy ending.

His only regret was that he hadn't thought of it himself. And also- "You might have warned a fellow."

"I might have, but you would have tensed up. Would have made it harder. Probably." She kissed him and he forgave her. When he lost hope, there she was, blazing a new path and finding another way. He could not harbor anger for that.

They spent the last few hours of daylight in heavy strategic discussion. Choosing where they would make their stand. Debating the role of the "hostages" in the affair. They never discussed that this could be their last battle. That their plan, no matter how clever, might falter. That their demise might lead to millions, perhaps even billions (a number he still could not fathom) of other deaths. But throughout it all, they kept their hands clasped together. They walked that way through the now-driving rain. They stayed that way when Miss Jenny and Miss Macey appeared behind them in a waterfall of light and a blast of heat. They did not separate as they discussed the plan, as they asked Miss Macey one final time if she was certain this was what she wanted. If she understood what she was marching into. The girl nodded, her eyes wise and canny beyond her years, and Miss Jenny pulled her close. He clutched to the lieutenant's hand more tightly as they passed through the doors of the police station, every eye hostile and cold upon them.

"I love you," he said softly, more for his benefit than for hers.

She kept her eyes straight ahead, did not let her concentration waiver for an instant. But she smiled and gave a single, firm nod. "You too, Ichabod."

The little phalanx drew to a halt. And they awaited their destiny.


	48. Enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys,
> 
> This is going to be our penultimate chapter. I wanted to go ahead and make my final remarks, so next week we're left with whatever we're left with, not me yammering.
> 
> I have a bad habit of writing one-shots that somehow gobble me up and spit me out the other side almost a year and 100,000 words later. Thanks for coming with me, even as this story grew and changed. Thanks for trusting me as I wrote one of the plottiest things I've ever written. And thanks for being so damn kind and wonderful. Even those of you who think I'm a terrible blasphemer were really very nice.
> 
> Special thanks, as always, to latbfan and JWAB for being the best friends and reviewers a girl could ask for. JWAB stopped me from making some seriously bad mistakes this chapter, so thank her too.
> 
> Keep fighting the good fight, ya'all. And if you stumble on this story even years down the road, drop me a line. Let me know what you think. I'll always have a soft spot for these two crazy kids and this insane show.
> 
> -Allison, 10/5/2014

She wondered if David's knees shook when he stood in front of Goliath, just a sling in his hand. Did Esther's hands tremble as she kohled her eyes so she would please the king in life or be beautiful in death? What about Moses? Exodus never said if his voice caught in his throat like a chicken bone when he asked old Pharaoh to let his people go.

The Bible made them seem like heroes. Plaster saints with eyes of stone. But they'd had moments like this, hadn't they? Those agonizing seconds waiting for the storm to hit. Those periods of utter silence when they didn't think, they  _knew_ they couldn't do what had been asked of them.

Abbie wasn't strong enough. Fear had ruled her life for thirteen years; it still ruled her today. Crane wasn't strong enough either; he got in his own way, he let people cloud his judgment. Jenny was just as flawed, too prone to doing the stupid, brave thing instead of the prudent, patient thing. And Macey? She was a kid.

But together, they might just all be enough.

They stood there in the hall of the sheriff's department for what felt like two-hundred and thirty-three years. Cops—too many of them—swirled around, each eying the weird quartet with outright hostility. She would, too, in their shoes: a disgraced cop, a felon, a relic, and a kid.

Crane's hand tightened around hers. She was glad; stopped it from shaking. "He's late," he muttered, as much to himself as to anyone else.

"He'll be here," Macey said. "I know he will be."

Like Macey's words had summoned him, a door opened. There was a simultaneous four-way gasp. In just a few hours, it had gotten so much worse. Where his right eye had been there was just a hole. Something dangled palely in the empty socket—his optical nerve? A piece of brain? Most of his cheek had been torn away, revealing teeth that remained startlingly white. Delicate bones fluttered in his hand like a bird's wing. And the reek. He smelled exactly like the morgue, the same sweet smell of rotting meat and harsh antiseptic edge.

"Come here, little bean." His words slurred oddly, but there was no mistaking the overflowing warmth in his voice. He held his arms open wide. "I'm not mad at you."

Macey tried to take a step forward, but Jenny had a hold on her arm. "You don't have to do this. You don't have to go to him."

"It's okay. I want to." Jenny's fingers dug divots into the girl's skin, but Macey patted her hand. "He's my dad. He won't hurt me."

"Maybe not  _you_ ," Jenny muttered. But she let Macey go.

The girl walked around Abbie and Crane and stood in front of Irving. For long, long seconds, she just looked up at him, at the crumbling ruin that had once been her father. She didn't run into his arms. But she didn't flinch either. She stood tall. "Dad. Let me help you."

"Don't need any help. All I need is you." He paused, then gestured vaguely to his face. Bone gleamed under the fluorescents. "I know this is all a little much, but it doesn't hurt. Just looks gnarly, is all. Everything's okay."

"It's  _not_ ," Macey said with a stomp of her foot. "It's so obviously not. And did you really threaten to send plague into the City if I didn't come?"

Irving straightened his tie. It wasn't crooked. "I may have said some things I'm not especially proud of. But I would do anything for you. You know that."

"And that's the problem." Macey cut Abbie a frustrated glance, and she moved forward quickly, towing Crane along with her.

"We've got an out for you, Captain," she said.

"An out."

"We can fix you. Make all this go away. Make it go back to the way it was before," Abbie said.

"You can get me out of my deal?" His eyebrows arched over his empty eye socket. Abbie swallowed hard.

"In a rather circuitous manner, but yes. We believe we can," Crane said. "If we remove your illness, it serves to reason it would also remove your supernatural abilities as Horseman. You would be whole and mortal once more. Free to be a good man as well as a good father."

"How does that serve to reason?" Irving asked sharply.

"One stems from the other," Abbie said, hoping like hell the argument made sense. That it was true. "Plague is part of who you are now. Deep in your bones. If we take that away-"

"Then you take away Macey's miracle. And I'm not doing that. C'mon, Mace. Let's get out of here." He held out his hand.

"I'm not going with you like this." Macey's voice was quiet but unshakeable. "Let them help you. Or I will walk away."

"Do you even hear yourself?  _Walk_ away. You couldn't do that a week ago. But now you can. Because I made the hard decision. Because I loved you enough to give you this. And you'd throw that back in my face?" Irving sounded more wounded than angry.

"You never asked me if this was what I wanted. And I never asked you for this. But I'm asking you now." Abbie couldn't see the child's face, but she didn't need to. Tears were heavy in every word. "Please, Daddy."

Irving's shoulders slumped. He passed a hand over the unmarred side of his face. "Baby, I don't think I can watch you go back into that chair again. Go through all that again."

"I'm going to be fine. I'm tougher than you think." She folded herself into her father's arms. Abbie didn't know how she managed not to gag, but she nuzzled against his chest sweetly, and Irving held her, pressed his good cheek against her head. Tears spattered.

Irving had been right. He  _was_  a good father. Or at least was trying to be the best one he could be. That had to count for something. Her dad never even tried.

Finally, he pulled away from Macey. The girl retreated back to Jenny's side. Irving nodded. "Okay."

Abbie didn't ask him if he was sure. She didn't give a fuck if he was or not. She and Crane exchanged a hard-eyed nod and approached him. Their own hands still clasped, they each lay the other on his back.

"I'm afraid this will hurt terribly, Captain," Crane said.

"No." His gaze was still fastened on Macey."It won't."

Abbie drew in a deep breath. She hoped like hell this would work. It would in theory. But theory and the real world didn't always line up.

"Prêt?" Crane asked.

She swallowed a smile. Just like their old fencing lessons. "Allez."

The power of plague felt thick, like she was shoveling up handfuls of snot. It made her own stomach turn and churn, her skin prickle with goosebumps and fever, her teeth feel loose in her head. Every part of her wanted to call it quits, to desperately scrub at herself until that awful, unclean feeling went away. But there was Crane, right there with her, hovering just at the edge of wherever she went when she gave herself over to the power. As soon as he felt her jitters, his strength pooled into her fear, wordlessly whispering that she could do this, that she was brave and good and clever, so terribly clever to have discovered the way out of all this. That unadulterated feeling of  _Crane_ sparked and warmed her like the fire in the cabin.

But simmering beneath that confidence and comfort, his own worries swirled muddily. The lurking terror that he physically lacked the power to help her, that he could not give enough, that he would fail her once more. She sent love and courage and the reassurance that he couldn't fail her, not ever, that just being himself, just being here, that was enough.

That together, they were enough.

As one, they drew on that divine power until it filled their skins and seemed to burst out of their pores. Only then did they begin, slowly and painstakingly, to force the power into Irving.

Healing Crane had been easy. She'd been  _reallocating_ the power as much as anything. But there was some kind of membrane around Irving, a thin but impenetrable barrier. They pushed harder and it stretched like the skin around a blister. Somewhere, from very far away, he began to scream.

Abbie gritted her teeth. She shaped the power into a hypodermic needle and imagined it shooting into Irving, of healing spreading through his veins and being carried to his tattered face, his empty eye. She pictured him whole and well once again, his cheek dark and smooth, his eye sharp and bright.

Nothing. Another piece of flesh separated from his face. It flopped to the ground and lay there like a worm. He screamed and wailed, but all the power came to nothing. Jenny was saying something; Macey was shouting something. But the words, too, were nothing.

Crane started to pull away, too curious about what was happening in the real world to finish their work. But she clutched at his hand until her own bones crackled. He snapped back to the task at hand, and they dove deeper. They fed more power into Irving's twitching body, and suddenly they broke through his skin and were inside him. They swam through his blood and parted his muscle like tree branches; they squeezed through the openings in his dagger-like ribs to a heart. Or a thing that had once been a heart.

It radiated foulness. It leached poison into Irving's blood, pumped it into his brain, sang it into his soul. Yellow masses of fat surrounded the bright-red organ, dotted here and there with spots of pure black rot. Its beats were erratic—now thumping like a bongo drum, now laying still and silent for minutes at a stretch.

Abbie did not want to touch that fucking thing. It was disgusting to look at, and the sense of rage and terror that rolled off it were way, way too familiar. But oh, even with all that, it was a heart exploding with love. So much so that it seemed impossible he could contain it all. And Abbie knew that feeling, too. And she knew that it was worth fighting for.

This was what they had come for. His eye, his face, the rest of it? A distraction. Their fight began and ended here and now.

The Witnesses poured themselves into the broken captain's heart. They surrounded it with the sticky plague power that bubbled from them in an unending stream. And as it sank into his convulsing heart, the power transformed into scorching light that burned with exquisite pain.

The darkness and infection around his heart began to shrink. Not a lot, but enough for Abbie to see hope. His screams grew louder. A new cry, faint and plaintive, joined in. But Abbie couldn't let herself care. She kept going. Scouring out the darkness. Letting the light burn him clean-

A hand struck her in the chest and she staggered back. Crane was ripped away from her. Not just from her hand, but from her mind, her soul. It was like being shoved out of a sauna into a snowstorm, the lack was so immediate and so complete. She rebounded off the wall and tried figure out what the everloving fuck was going on. The world was still not quite real, still overlaid with colors and sensations that had no names, but even as she gasped for breath and tried to understand, she knew something had gone horribly wrong.

"Take it back," Irving snarled. His cheek had scabbed over and there was an odd film over his eye socket. But his lip was curled in fury, and as Abbie followed his gaze, she saw why.

Jenny knelt beside Macey's crumpled body. The girl shook with some kind of seizure—or at least the top half did. Below the waist, she was motionless.

Oh.

"We didn't do this," Abbie begged. "These are the people you're dealing with, the people you made a bargain with. This is what they're willing to do. Don't let her sacrifice be for nothing. Let us finish."

"Fix her."

"Captain, we cannot," Crane said. Quick as a snake, she grabbed his hand again, ready to dive back in. But he held up a single finger. She waited. For now. "Her injury, regrettable as it may be, was not caused by illness. We have no-"

" _Undo this_." The words reverberated through the hallway. Absolute stillness fell in their wake. Then one of his men, some young guy who must have been barely out of the academy, gave a shriek.

Abbie couldn't blame him. His hand was encrusted in oozing green pox. More horrified wailings rose from throughout the station, a chorus of misery. Power radiated from Irving in viscous waves. Even Jenny suddenly clutched at her face as the infection smashed into her.

"You fix her. Or it's game over, right now," Irving said. And to prove he wasn't fucking around, he closed his eyes and spread his hands wide. She swore she could see the contagion spreading from him, laying thick and heavy in the air, getting sucked into the vents, blowing out into the world. That noxious illness butted up against her, but it slid off her skin like oil on water. Crane, too, was untouched. Reyes? God? Some kind of weird immunity from her first battle? She didn't have time to wonder why she was catching a break. They had to act. Now.

"Quickly," Crane started. She felt the power flare to life inside of him, but he was reaching out in the wrong direction. He was trying to heal Jenny, heal these poor bastards screaming all around them. Bless his heart.

She kinked the power off like a garden hose. "Not them." Jesus, it was spreading fast. Already Jenny was hunched on the floor beside Macey, still trying to help the girl even as her skin cracked and split. Abbie knew exactly how much that hurt, would give anything to stop it for Jenny. But Jenny would be the first to tell her no. That there were bigger priorities. That now, the only way out was through. "No time."

"They're  _dying,"_ Crane said, like he was giving her any new goddamn information. "Miss Jenny is-"

"I fucking know. Help me." He looked down at her, lips twisting in pain as he listened to the choking cries from the infected. If he kept looking at her like that, she might just crumble too, do the thing that felt right now instead of doing the thing that would be right for everyone. "Please," she said.

He grimaced. But he nodded. And they were both plunged back into that swirl of sensation and togetherness.

They tried doing the same thing they'd done before. That had  _worked_ before. But the barrier around Irving was tougher now. Less of their power trickled through. The blackness grew. But suddenly there was an insane, huge gush of new power spouting out of Crane. Where the hell was he getting it from? What was he doing?

That's when she realized—it wasn't the power like she was thinking of it. It wasn't the stuff that came from God, the stuff that had showed up inside them that day by the river. Crane was giving himself. He was taking all his grief, all his loss, all his anger and inadequacy and channeling it into something new. Something that felt different. Distinctly human. Stronger.

She hesitated only for a moment. Just one second of,  _Jesus, you want this too?_ Then she pushed her doubt away and held nothing back.

Power spouted from her like a geyser. She didn't just rely on God—she sent  _herself._ All of her rage. All of her fear. But most of all, her love. For Crane and for Jenny and Irving and this whole fucked up, awe-full world of theirs. Beside her, inside her, alongside her, Ichabod was doing the same. His love was gentler than hers, narrower but deeper, and lined with prickly edges. Their power mingled together until they burned brighter than an angel.

That combined might swamped into Irving, snapping through the now-flimsy barrier and whirlpooling around his heart. But more and more dark spots flared into being as he continued to spread poison. She could see the sickness spreading out and out, bursting through the doors of the station and vaporizing into the air, catching on the breeze, flying away on a swift west wind.

More. More. The power flowed through her, was tempered into something stronger and deeper and truer than even God. It poured out in a rushing stream, a stream she could never allow to end. Crane matched her step for step until it there was no he, there was no she, but only an eternal and inextricable  _them._ They gave and gave and gave, and little by little, they drove back the darkness. But there was so much. And there was so little left to give.

But there was one thing left. Below fear, below love, at the base of it all, there was something more precious than all of it. There was the thing Moloch had lusted over and which Abbie knew could never be taken from her. A thing that could only be given freely and when the time was right.

Abbie didn't know if the time was right. She didn't know how this was going to end—with her dead, like the Bible said, or maybe worse, maybe twisted into something that wasn't her any more. Maybe this was a trap. But it was all that was left. And there was still so much to do.

Another part of her, the Crane part of her, realized what she was going to do. It hummed disapproval until she could hear him, clear as if he'd spoken in her ear.  _You mustn't._

Yeah. He was right. But if this was their destiny, if she had to go out protecting Jenny and Macey and her little sheriff's department and her little town and her little world? Well. Maybe destiny wasn't so bad, after all.

_Us or them. I choose them._

There was a dizzying wave of love, a sense of surrender and, distantly, a pressure on her hand. Then she went to work.

Tearing your soul out hurts. It's like flaying yourself alive, except you keep on living. You're just a little less than you were before. Her own scream joined the din as she fed her very self into Irving. Their efforts doubled as Crane threw in his lot. His soul, navy blue and shot through with gold, pooled into her own amber and carmine. And all of it, all of  _them_ , rushed into Irving.

They no longer sought to burn away the darkness. Instead, they embraced it. For these were souls who had known sin. Who had known failing. But they penetrated the darkness and spread something more quickly than Plague, something more powerful than Famine, stronger than War, more potent than Death. In those dark places, they whispered,  _all is forgiven._ They shielded the tender heart from more attacks, all while comforting the parts that were afflicted.  _All will be well._  The Witnesses gave more and more, laying bare every mistake they had made, every way they had fought their way back to themselves and to those they loved.  _You can conquer this._

And the part of this Horseman that was still a man found strength. And the light—his light, magnified by the Witnesses—grew. Little by little, it began to drive back the darkness.

In another world, a girl cried. A warrior fought for breath. A father wept. Two bodies slumped to the floor, their limbs tangled together, their hands still clasped.

The light grew. The shadows shrank. But as they retreated, they took a terrible toll. They left holes and scars and great gaping wounds behind. They left a heart that had reclaimed itself, but which could no longer sustain itself.

There was one last, frantic beat, and the man who had been Irving, who had been captain and father and Horseman all at the same time, crashed to his knees. "Little bean," he said. And then it was finished.

They should have stopped then, the Witnesses. Should have gathered up the fractured bits of their souls, should have stood and walked away. But they didn't. They poured themselves into the very air around them, where they were caught in the wind and breathed in by aching lungs, absorbed through bleeding flesh. Now they found broken places and mended them. Now, they were everywhere. Everything.

They gave. And they gave. And they gave. Until there was nothing left, and they knew no more.


	49. They

First they were everything.

Then there was nothing.

Now she was alone. In her mind, in her soul, and in...whatever the hell this place was. Mostly, it was white. Bright and shiny, like a dentist's office. White arched overhead and spread out beneath her feet and rolled away in every direction. That was all.

"Crane?" Her voice was swallowed by the brightness. No echo. She took a step forward, hands outstretched. There had to be a wall, had to be a  _something._ But no matter how many steps she took, nothing. Just quiet. Just white.

She began to run with silent steps. There had to be an end to all this, didn't there? Or was this what happened when you gave your soul away? No heaven, no hell, only emptiness?

She kept running. Kept yelling. Maybe for minutes, maybe for days. Panic grew and grew until it was screaming in her ears, bursting from her chest, pounding in her veins. Then something grabbed her arm and she lost her balance, only just managing to swing around with her fist raised.

"Abbie, Abbie!" Crane shielded his face with the hand not wrapped around her wrist. "It's me. You sleep always with one knee raised, your foot flat against the bed. You hum to yourself as you read, particularly research which bores you. You respond most favorably when I press my lips against your-"

She launched herself at him, clinging to his neck with every goddamn thing she had. And he was right there, catching her, sweeping her off her feet, crushing her close. His cheek rasped against hers like sandpaper but she couldn't possibly care. He was here and he was real and he was  _hers._ There was no mistaking any of that. Once you've been all mixed up with another person's soul, no cheap knock-off can fool you ever again. "But where did you come from? Where have you been?"

"Here. Searching for you. And then quite suddenly, without the slightest warning, there you were." He set her on her feet, but kept his arms tight around her waist. She didn't mind. "And now that we are reunited, we can combine our forces to divine a way out of this wasteland," he said with the usual Crane confidence. Of course there was a way out. Of course they would find it. Of course.

So how did she tell him? How could she tell him what she suspected, what she was pretty sure was true? That sometimes there isn't a way out, that sometimes the road just dead-ends? Literally?

"I don't know that it's gonna be quite as easy as you think it is," she stumbled.

"Have a care not to place words in my mouth. Never once did I say such a feat would be accomplished with ease, only that it would be accomplished. General Washington once said-"

"Crane." She placed a hand on either side of his face, stroking his cheeks like she would pet an overexcited puppy. "I don't think General Washington can help us right now. Because I'm pretty sure we...well, I think we died."

It was hard to know, since she didn't have a ton of experience with dying. But all they'd given so much of themselves. How could there have been any animating force left to keep a body going? And there was that yawning nothingness that loomed large in her memory, that time that just wasn't. Even when you're asleep, even when you're unconscious, there's still a faint heartbeat, a primal knowledge that you're still there. Still you. But there was only a void. And here they were, in a literal white light situation. Add up all the pieces and it equals dead.

"Ye of little faith," he said with a cocksure smile. "We couldn't possibly be dead. Well, not yet, to be quite precise about it. We've still five and one-half years more to go. This is merely a minor detour. We shall-"

"No, she's right." Reyes was a sudden dark blot against the searing whiteness. "You're dead."

"Impossible," Crane said.

"Perfectly possible. It's impressive, really. You two can't even manage to die at the right time." She cut them both a disgusted look. "What did you think was going to happen when you started tearing off chunks of your souls and throwing them around like confetti?"

"I thought we'd stop the Horseman of Pestilence," Abbie said. Worry bloomed in her stomach. It was okay if they died. Were gonna die eventually anyway. But if they'd done all that and he was still riding, then- "We did, right? Stop him?"

"That you did. And stopped yourself right along with him. Mazel tov."

"In the absence of stronger guidance, we did what we thought best. If there was a simpler solution, the time to have provided it was  _yesterday_ ," Crane spit. "Rather than jeering at us after the fact."

"I underestimated both your resourcefulness and your stupidity. You're right, my fault." She shrugged. "Anyway, thanks for your service. We all appreciate it. We'll get you processed and on to the next step here shortly. I've got things to do." She turned on her sensible heel and raised a hand in goodbye.

Abbie dashed forward to snag the back of her jacket. No way she was just walking—or poofing—out of here and leaving them. "Wait. Jenny, Macey, all of them. Are they okay? Did Irving survive? The plague, is it manageable? What's happening in Sleepy Hollow?"

"You can check in on them when you get upstairs. But they're not your concern any more." Reyes sounded as gentle as she ever had. "It's time to let someone else handle it."

"But we are the Witnesses. This charge was given us for a reason. We can't merely relinquish our responsibility because something as trifling as death got in the way." The ends of his sentences lilted up. Jesus. First Reyes being nice, now Crane being uncertain. She couldn't deal with everyone around her cracking up.

"When the torch falls, someone else takes it up. That's the way of warriors. You know that," Reyes said.

"That's not our way. Nuh uh." Abbie didn't know many things for sure. Couldn't even say if tomorrow the sun would rise over Sleepy Hollow. But she knew beyond any shadow of doubt that they were not done. "You have to send us back. Pull some Lazarus voodoo, do what you gotta. Just get us back in the fight."

"Look, I thought you'd be...not happy about dying, but relieved. Whatever happened to Little Miss Take This Cup Away from Me?" Reyes folded her arms across her chest, one foot tapping impatiently on the ether.

"I still don't know why I was chosen. But I was. And you can make fun all you want, but we got shit done." Her voice broke. She wasn't expecting that. And she wasn't going to fall apart in front of goddamn Reyes. She closed her eyes for just a moment, blessed relief against the glaring brightness. She saw Sleepy Hollow, nestled in its little valley beside its little river. She saw Jenny and Macey and all her brothers and sisters at the police station and Millie at the diner and all the people beyond them, people she would never meet who counted on them without knowing that they did. And she fastened a firm stare at the angel. "It's my town. My world. My fight." Crane's hand fell heavily on her shoulder. "Our fight. Let us finish it."

"You still wind up here. Old age, white picket fences, that's not in the cards for you. You go back down there, it's only gonna be harder when it's permanent," Reyes warned, her eyes bright and black like a bird's.

"Please," Crane said softly. Reyes quirked a brow at Abbie. She drew in a deep breath. Knew she was gonna regret this decision ten times a day for five and a half years. She could be up here, safe and peaceful and sipping on piña coladas or whatever the fuck people did in heaven. She was going back to blood and mud and pain and exhaustion and loss. But she would do it. And she would do her best to be glad for every second of it.

"Please," she echoed.

Reyes laughed. It was one of the most disturbing sounds Abbie had ever heard. "You surprised me. I woulda just shipped your asses right back down regardless of what you wanted, but my Lord said you had to have the choice. Had to ask for it. I wasn't sure, but Lori and Katrina, they said I was crazy if I thought either one of you would say no."

Abbie and Crane exchanged a quick, puzzled glance. "This was some kind of test? And you—you talked to my  _mom_ about it? And Katrina?"

"It's always a test." Reyes began to draw in the air with one finger, trails of light following her movements.

Her mom was in heaven. And that meant... "Can we see them? Before we go?" It'd be awkward with Katrina, but from the faint shine in Crane's eyes, she knew it would mean so much to him, even for a second. And there were things she could say, things they could talk about and make clear-

"Not yet." More light now. Moving faster and faster. She didn't think it was possible, but the whiteness seemed even whiter. "But they see. And they know. And they're okay."

The light concentrated around Reyes, growing and growing, so bright Abbie threw up a hand to shade her eyes as Reyes—as  _Uriel—_ burned, as she stretched tall over them like a pillar of flame.

"Tell us what's to come!" Crane shouted, but the light ignited his words and sent them spewing into the air like ash.

The angel extended a fiery sword, heat and light pulsing over them in agonizing waves. They clung to each other as the flames devoured them, and just as the light tore them apart, one word pounded in their ears and in their hearts:

" _Victory."_

* * *

 

She never knew souls were so  _big._ Being resurrected was like trying to shove ten pounds of shit into a five pound bag. Her body felt like it was going to shred apart and leave a steaming pile of intestines and soul shards lying right there on the scuffed floor of the sheriff's department.

But somehow, she came back together, and the pain ebbed. Oh, it didn't go  _away,_ but it faded to the point that she could pry her eyes open and survey the scene. Which was the chaos she had predicted. Only minutes had passed—bodies littered the hallway, most moving feebly. The unafflicted officers dashed around in a disorganized shambles, checking pulses, screaming into walkie-talkies, stumbling blindly.

One body, only feet from her, was notably still. Irving.

Crane stirred. She gave him a quick once over; he looked like hell, which was ironic enough to give her a little smile. "You okay?"

"Marvelous," he groaned. "And you?"

"Never better." They staggered to their feet. "Get Jenny and Macey. Get them somewhere safe and start figuring out what comes next."

"And what will you do?"

She leaned up and kissed him for not nearly long enough. "Take care of my town. See you soon."

But it wasn't soon. Abbie—her name miraculously cleared by a certain captain-cum-celestial-being—coordinated first response all over the county. The plague was milder, human, treatable, but ERs and intensive care units were still swamped. Many of the mysterious cops who appeared in town at Irving's command disappeared, leaving them short-staffed. A few demonic flare-ups had to be put down; they were half-hearted and leaderless, but still took time and an ungodly amount of artillery to deal with.

Crane had his own business to tend to, playing nursemaid to Jenny (who didn't take kindly to being nursemaided) and reuniting Macey with her mother. The child mourned her father and her legs, though the former earned the lion's share of her grief. Then there were endless hours of research, advising Abbie from afar and casting his gaze to the future; it appeared that the Antichrist would be making his debut in short order.

Days sprinted by. If they were lucky, they saw each other for a few moments before collapsing into exhausted sleep. If they weren't, Abbie bedded down on a sagging cot in the Sheriff's department, and phone calls and text messages had to do.

Until one day, without any real warning, things were normal. Ish. Okay, so there was a troll living under the Tappan Zee Bridge and a ghoul camping out in Philpse Manor, but that was just kinda par for the course. Jenny was up and about and Macey was back in the city.

Abbie came home from her shift—she'd never thought she'd be so glad to give Bob Joosten a ticket for public urination—and held out her hand to Crane. "Will you take the air with me?" she asked.

He scowled down at his reading. "As soon as I have uncovered the meaning of the petrogylph you discovered on Sylvan Road. I suspect it may be-"

"Walk with me," she said. "Please."

He looked up, lips parted. The annoyance seeped from his features as he recognized his own invitation from a lifetime ago. And he took her hand.

They walked a familiar path, through the abandoned lot, winding through Douglas Park, and down to the Pocantico. Even though they had scarcely seen each other for days, they were silent. That felt right. Once Crane would have babbled about any and everything to avoid the quiet. Now, they both knew that a glance or a touch could say more than all the words in all the world ever could.

They sat under a canopy of fall-touched leaves and dangled their feet over a river that had once turned to blood at their command; that had once borne witness to their greatest act of courage.

"We've not spoken of the events of that day," Crane said as the sun slipped below the horizon, turning the world to shades of silver and gold. "How, for a moment, you and I became as one."

"What did you want to talk about?" She rested her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes.

"I had thought—I had feared—that perhaps you were discomfited at the closeness such a thing required." His fingers trickled through her hair.

She hadn't had time to think about it, let alone be "discomfited" by it. But now that she had the luxury of time the answer was clear. "No. I'm still scared of lots of things. Letting the world end. Letting down the people I care about. Bats." His soft laugh rumbled through her. "But I'm not scared of you seeing me. Knowing me. Loving me." Despite her bravado, that last word still caught in her throat. But she got it out. It sounded true. Felt true.

"I am pleased to know that my affection for you is less frightening than a flying rat," he teased. And he kissed her. And she kissed him. And one thing led to another which led to a pile of clothes on the darkened river bank.

"You ever hear of skinny dipping, Ichabod?" They lay limp and languid in the grass, the cool breeze raising thousands of goosebumps.

"It sounds rather unpleasant, to be quite honest."

"I promise it's not." She grazed her teeth against his neck and she grinned as even more goosebumps erupted.

"Mm. Very well. What must we do?"

She tugged him grumblingly to his feet. "We jump."

He eyed the chilly river below. "Are you certain?"

"Yeah. I am." She extended her hand. He took it. Together, they leaped off the edge and into the unknown.

_The End._


End file.
